The Five Stages of VA Claims Processing:
A Tragicomedy
A Dramatic Interpretation of Bureaucracy, Snacks, and Slowly Losing Your Grip on Reality
If Shakespeare had ever filed a VA claim, we would have gotten a sixth tragedy.
Because for veterans, caregivers, and surviving families, the VA claims process is not simply paperwork.
It is a journey.
A saga.
A heroic quest through the nine circles of red tape.
And since the only way to survive it is with humor, snacks, and occasional screaming into the void, I present:
The Five Stages of VA Claims Processing — A Tragicomedy in One Act.
Curtains up.
Stage 1: Optimism
“This will be straightforward. The website says the average processing time is 90 days.”
Ah, sweet innocence.
This stage is filled with:
Fresh hope
Organized documents
A sense of purpose
Color-coded folders
A belief that “surely they won’t lose it this time”
You—even you!—believe the system is ready for efficiency.
This optimism lasts approximately 11 minutes.
Maybe 12 if you made coffee.
Stage 2: Confusion
“What do you mean the form I submitted electronically needs to be mailed?
What do you mean the uploaded file is missing?
What do you mean Section B contradicts Section A?”
The VA now enters the chat.
You begin receiving letters that seem to have been written by three different people who have never spoken to each other.
You ask questions.
You receive answers such as:
“That depends.”
“It’s in transit.”
“It’s being reviewed.”
“We can’t see what you see.”
“We’ll send a letter about the letter.”
You start wondering if you are the problem.
You are not.
You never were.
Stage 3: Rage-Snacking
“If I don’t eat this entire sleeve of Oreos, I will flip a congressional desk.”
This stage is where emotions peak.
Symptoms include:
Eating snacks aggressively
Yelling at your printer
Googling “Can paperwork commit emotional damage?”
Rapid pacing
Screaming internally
Actual screaming
Stalking the mail carrier
Refreshing the VA portal until your phone begs for mercy
You now understand why the ancient poets wrote epics filled with rage.
They, too, must have filed claims.
Stage 4: Existential Dread
“What if this never ends? What if I live here now? What if I am just a form floating in government space?”
This is the spiritual low point.
You begin to question:
Your life choices
Time itself
Whether the claim actually exists or if you imagined filing it
How paper can wield this much emotional power
Whether you should move into the regional office and haunt it like a Victorian ghost
You stare out the window dramatically.
You listen to sad music.
You consider writing your own tragic monologue.
You are now fully prepared for community theater.
Stage 5: Acceptance
“It is what it is. I will simply wait. Patience is my new identity.”
You settle into the void.
You reach a zen-like state where you remain calm, unmoved by portal updates such as:
“Pending”
“Closed”
“Reopened”
“In review”
“Further evidence required”
“We mailed you a letter you will never receive”
You are floating.
Peaceful.
Detached.
You are one with the bureaucracy.
And then—
Just when your soul stabilizes…
Just when you begin to feel emotionally secure…
They request another form.
A form you already submitted.
A form you can recite from memory.
A form they swore they had.
And thus…
the cycle begins anew.
Roll credits.
Cue dramatic music.
Pour yourself a comfort beverage.
Why We Laugh: Because Otherwise We’d Set Something on Fire
Everyone who has lived this saga knows:
The VA claims process isn’t linear.
It isn’t logical.
It isn’t merciful.
It is a test of endurance, humor, snacks, and emotional elasticity.
We survive it by mocking it.
We connect through shared suffering.
We bond through collective exhaustion.
We laugh because the only alternative is full meltdown.
And somehow — miraculously —
we get through it.
To Every Survivor, Veteran, and Caregiver in This Relatable Hell: You’re a Legend
You’re not dramatic.
You’re not overreacting.
You’re not weak.
You’re living a process that was clearly designed by someone who believed efficiency was optional and emotional breakdowns build character.
But you’re doing it.
Stage by stage.
Snack by snack.
Letter by letter.
And you’re still standing.
That makes you extraordinary.
