Written By: Michael D. McClellan |
Chris Van Etten has no regrets.
The former Marine would do it all over again in a heartbeat, even if he knew beforehand that he’d step on that improvised explosive device, blowing a large crater into the earth and losing both of his legs in the process. The United States was nearly a decade into the War in Afghanistan when Van Etten enlisted on July 13, 2009. A troop surge to battle Taliban fighters was underway, and Van Etten soon found himself on his second deployment, serving as an Infantryman with the 1st Battalion, 7th Marines, in the Sangin District of Helmand Province. He knew the risks when he signed up. He understood that he’d likely be deployed to Afghanistan as part of the surge. His parents, Wayne and Leigh Van Etten, were both Air Force veterans, and they had instilled a sense of sacrifice in their son from an early age. He wanted to serve his country. He certainly didn’t want to lose his legs, but the threat of makeshift bombs known as IEDs came with the territory. He understood that the unthinkable could happen at any moment. Van Etten and his fellow Marines would often joke about such scenarios prior to departing base, the gallows humor a coping mechanism for those heading into harm’s way: “Where’s the lieutenant colonel?” “He’s gone.” “Gone where?” “All over the place.”
Boom.
Laughter is often a soldier’s best defense against the unyielding mental stress inherent in the job. The Helmand Province demands a sense of humor. Viewing it from the air, where a mass of mountains gives way to sand, patched with green, snaking south along the Helmand River, is about the only way to safely take it in. To conduct missions there means becoming comfortable with the knowledge that the ground under your feet cannot be trusted.
“Everyone deployed there knows that the next step can be your last,” Van Etten says. “It’s a reality that you learn to deal with. You do your best to keep it in perspective and do your job.”
Helmand Province offers this grim reminder: IEDs have killed more U.S. service members in Afghanistan than guns have, and the enemy will stop at nothing to maim and kill. When the U.S. brought jamming devices to stop bombs triggered by car keys and cell phones, the Taliban built pressure plates: two strands of copper wire suspended between wooden planks that, when stepped on, complete a circuit and detonate the explosives buried in the fine dirt nearby. When metal detectors were brought in to sniff out the copper, the Taliban laid string across fields – a quick yank would trigger the explosion. Bombs have been found made entirely of hollowed logs and matchstick shavings. There are bombs that use light sensors, designed so that the explosives will detonate when exposed to the sun. In Helmand Province, its best to assume that bombs are everywhere – in trees, in walls, on donkeys, under dogs – because they are everywhere, just like the night of June 13, 2012, when Van Etten and his squad were conducting dismounted patrol near the town of Sangin.
“The night started like any other,” Van Etten recalls, “but looking back, there were things that stood out, red flags and warning signs that weren’t noticed or caught at the time.”
It was after midnight, moonless, the stars brilliant but unhelpful. The Marines wore night-vision goggles, and while this technology helps, it isn’t capable of detecting bombs buried in the ground. Bombs like the one that rocked the Marines’ observation post and sent adrenalin pumping. Chris and his best friend, TJ Buane, rushed to the scene, discovering that a squad-mate had stepped on an IED. As they prepared to lift their fallen comrade, Chris stepped on another IED. He lost both legs. TJ didn’t survive.
“TJ was such a great example to all of us,” Van Etten says. “He was on his first deployment to Afghanistan. It was a very tough thing to deal with. In many ways, a lot tougher than recovering from the loss of my legs.”
The Chris Van Etten Story could have gone in so many different directions following that hellish night in Helmand Province. It’s not hard to imagine him confined to a wheelchair, homeless, and addicted to heroin. His could have been a cautionary tale for service to country, the good-looking, All-American kid who goes into the military with his hopes and dreams intact, and who returns from war broken and soulless, his life shattered into a million pieces with no one there to help him put it back together. How many other Chris Van Ettens just give up? How many fall into a depression so deep and dark that there’s no way out, other than a bullet to the brain?
It could have gone down like that.
The weeks and months following that IED blast were marked by the numerous surgeries Van Etten had to endure, his road to recovery filled with pain and dotted with despair, the whole of it enveloped in a complete lack of purpose. You might think that the hard days were in the immediate aftermath of the blast, but Van Etten’s support system was there with him from the jump: his parents, his brothers, medical teams, civilian and military friends alike. They provided love and motivation in equal doses, along with the sense that even though his life would be forever altered, he would not have to face it alone. Eventually, reality set in: His support system couldn’t be with him 24×7. Sitting at home, alone, with no one to push him, Van Etten found it increasingly difficult to keep going.
“I was feeling sorry for myself,” he says. “I was suffering from depression, insomnia, and anxiety. I had become dependent on painkillers. I was in a dark place and couldn’t really find my way out.”
On his own, simple tasks became monstrously hard. Quiet moments became a battleground between happiness and hopelessness. There were the prosthetics to deal with. The phantom pain. The frustration that comes with not being able to walk a flight of stairs or do any of the hundreds of things he took for granted before that IED blast.
“Those moments were tougher to deal with than my time in the hospital. I was totally lost.”
Chris Van Etten needed a plan but didn’t have one. Rare were the days when he didn’t feel sorry for himself, and frequent were the moments when he was overcome with survivor’s guilt: Why did TJ have to die? Why am I still alive? What if that first IED hadn’t gone off in the first place?
At his lowest point, a desperate Chris Van Etten made a life-changing decision: He hit the gym.
“I knew I had to do something productive before I did something I’d regret,” he says. “I went to the gym and felt so much better that I kept going. It was the perfect therapy.”
Before long, the handsome former Marine was pouring everything into his workouts, pumping iron like a fiend and smiling more than he had at any point since the injury. That horrific night in Helmand Province was still there, lodged in his mind, only now it took up a whole lot less space – and served a whole new purpose.
“I was motivated to share my story with as many people as I could,” Van Etten says. “At the time I didn’t know exactly how I was going to go about doing that, but at least I had a goal to drive me forward. I had a reason to be a part of the world again.”
It all started with a photo shoot.
Famed photographer Michael Stokes included Chris Van Etten in his series of coffee table books that featured veterans wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan. They showed Van Etten not as a lesser man diminished by his injuries, but rather as someone who had embraced his new identity, leaned into it, and made it his own. With his rugged good looks and chiseled physique, Van Etten also projected the idea that double-amputees can be damned sexy, too.
“The photos definitely got a lot of attention,” he says. “They were a little on the risqué side, that’s for sure. I had no idea they were going open so many doors.”
Fast forward: Chris Van Etten has scored roles on the long-running ABC soap opera, General Hospital, as well as in Paramount Network’s 68 Whiskey. He’s also stripped down to his underwear as part of Jockey’s national “Show ‘Em What’s Underneath” campaign, which features three “everyday heroes” in their Jockey briefs. His short film Walk is a deeply personal and moving account of overcoming his injuries. He’s gotten married. Been blessed with a son. All of it just scratching the surface of what comes next.
“I’m very fortunate that things have worked out the way that they have,” Van Etten says. “I have a full life, a family, a career. I get to share my story and hopefully inspires others. I want people to know that I’ve been in a dark place, and that I’ve been able to climb out. I want them to know that they can climb out, too. Whatever they’re facing, the important thing is to never give up.”
You grew up in a military family. What was that like?
I was born in Ft. Walton Beach Florida. My mom was in the Air Force at the time, and we ended up in Okinawa, Japan, not long afterwards. It was the typical military childhood in that respect, because we moved to a different state or country ten times in 14 years. As much as I enjoyed getting to see new things and experience different parts of the world, it was very hard to make friends because we were always getting to know new people. We were a very tight knit family as a result. I have two brothers, and we grew up depending on each other. Our family finally settled down in one spot right before high school, when we moved to Illinois. I was 14 at the time, and we were there for about six years. I joined the Marine Corps right after that.
What was the Van Etten house like with three boys?
There’s a pretty big age difference between us. I’m six years older than my middle brother, and nine years older than my youngest brother, so there weren’t whole lot of similarities or interests until later on. It’s funny what sticks with you. One of my favorite memories of my middle brother is when he was two years old. We lived in England at the time, and were on a trip to Scotland. I remember jumping off the curb and him trying to imitate me, even though he couldn’t quite jump yet. He’d stand on his tippy toes and try to jump like me. My youngest brother, I remember how much he loved to run. We’d moved to Illinois by then, and we lived right by the middle school. We would go to the track and pretend to race. I would let him win, at least until he started getting too big for his britches – and then I would whip his butt just to make sure that he knew who was boss.
Your parents were in the Air Force. Why did you choose the Marine Corps?
I’m not sure, other than I couldn’t picture myself in the Air Force. Maybe it was a case of me wanting to have different experiences than my parents. But I always knew that I was going to join the military. I didn’t know if it was going to be for four years or 24 years, but when you grow up with military parents like I did, you grow up with that mindset. I knew that I had to serve and give back to my country in some way. I remember trying to picture the coolest thing that I could do in the military, and the answer always came back infantry. That narrowed it down. Was it going to be the Army? The Marines? Around this time I saw that commercial where the Marine slays the dragon and ends up in his dress blues. Talk about an awesome advertisement. I think everybody talked about that. That commercial, combined with the camaraderie that you hear about with the Marine Corps, drew me in.
When did you make your decision?
It was during my junior year of high school. My mom was worried when she found out that I wanted to join the Marines, but she always the kind of person who wanted you to do what made you happy. My dad was a little more resistant, but he was okay with it after I enlisted.
Pop culture question: Have you ever seen the movie Jarhead?
I haven’t watched it in a while, but I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve watch that movie. It’s one of my all-time favorites. That, and Full Metal Jacket.
Did the Marine Corps live up to what you envisioned it would be?
Before you go in, it’s a bit of a fantasy. The whole thing, from boot camp forward, isn’t something that you have ever experienced, so you let your mind wander and your imagination takes over. Then you get there, and what you picture in your mind is very different from reality – but not in a way that you would expect. Sometimes you go into something with certain expectations and you end up getting let down. That wasn’t the case with the Marine Corps. If anything, I was more happy with what it really became that what I envisioned going in.
What does it mean to be a Marine?
Almost everyone is familiar with the recruiting slogan, “The Few. The Proud. The Marines.” And the same can be said for the Marine Corps motto, “Semper Fidelis,” which is Latin for “always faithful.” Out of all of the major branches, we are the smallest one. Because there’s not a lot of us, I was always under the impression that you had to be fierce to be a Marine. You had to look out for each other. The bar is high, so you constantly hold yourself accountable to that standard. I enlisted with the mindset that being a Marine is full throttle. When it’s time to fight, it’s time to fight hard. When it’s time to party, it’s time to party hard. Everything that you do, you have to do it with 100% effort. Then, after you’ve become a Marine, you hold your head up high because being a Marine is an honor. It’s not a title given lightly, and in boot camp they really drill that into your head. They always say that there is no such thing as an ex-Marine. It’s something that you cherish and hold onto for the rest of your life.
Would you describe the Marine Corps as a unique brotherhood?
Very much so. That brotherhood is what enticed me into it. Becoming a Marine reinforces the concept of family. You innately understand that your fellow Marines are going to take care of you, and that you’re going to be there for them. It’s an unbreakable bond. You get really close with these guys. It doesn’t matter if it’s working long days together stateside, spending every waking second side-by-side in the field, or working combat missions overseas. All we have is each other, so that brotherhood is grows incredibly strong very quickly.
You literally put your lives on the line for your country. That alone seems to demand total commitment to your fellow Marine.
It’s a little bit like that movie Starship Troopers, where you do everything together and it’s also this crazy, hot mess. There’s this unspoken communication that develops. Nobody has to say anything. Your fellow Marines are going to be there when you need them. It doesn’t matter if it’s a fight in town or a fight in Afghanistan. You instinctively know that they’ve got your back, no matter what.
Even when something goes horribly wrong.
I lost my legs stepping on an IED during night patrol in Afghanistan, and I would do it all over again. I wouldn’t think twice about it. The only regret that I’ve ever had was that my buddy TJ was also killed. If there is one thing that I could change, it would be that.
Photo Courtesy Chris Van Etten
Your story is one of incredible inspiration. Please take me back to that night in Afghanistan, June 2012.
I would say that it started out like any of the other nights. We had been doing a lot of night patrols, which really wasn’t something that was being done very much at the time because the enemy still had control of the night. We had night optics and all of that stuff, but it’s nothing in comparison to operating in your own backyard. The plan had been to patrol around the area during the day, so that we had a good idea of what our surroundings would be at night. Unfortunately we didn’t get to do that, so everybody was already a little on edge.
You know how they say that hindsight is 2020? What happened that night is one of those things where you look back and you say, “Well, here’s this red flag, and here’s that red flag.” For example, our point man – who had never once gotten lost during the entire deployment – made a wrong turn, and we ended up off course from where we were supposed to be. We ended up finding our way back to the spot where we were going to set up our observation post. Everything was fine up to that point – we set up our security, and we had our sectors that we were watching. In fact, it was a pretty uneventful night, right up until we were getting ready to leave. At this point I should say that we had set up close to a wall – another red flag – and from the very beginning our squad leader was concerned. He’d been through a couple of different combat deployments, so he’d pretty much seen it all. He kept reminding everyone to stay away from that wall, because if there was anything out there, it was going to be in that area. Everyone understood what he was saying, but it was also late and people were tired. We were getting ready to pick up everything and head back to base. That’s when I heard a loud boom.
Someone stepped on an IED.
Everybody mobilized.
Did chaos ensue?
IEDs aren’t an uncommon thing. Before we’re deployed, we are trained on how to respond. Each team in the squad knows exactly what to do, and we rehearse it many times before we go out on patrol. As soon as we heard the explosion, all of the teams jumped into action. The first team to reach the blast site is the medical team, so they rushed over to treat the casualty. The team that I was on, our job was to set up the landing zone for the helo [helicopter]. We finished that up, and then we started setting up perimeter security. That’s when my buddy TJ yelled over and said that they needed someone else to come and help. I was the closest, so I rushed over and found TJ, who said that my buddy Brad had stepped on and IED. He explained that although they weren’t sure yet, it looked like he had lost both of his legs.
What went through your mind?
At that point your adrenaline is pumping, and your only focus is on helping your fellow Marine. It wasn’t the first time that I had seen something like that, but it was the first time that it involved somebody who was close to me. Right away your only focus is on doing whatever it takes to get him out of this situation and get him the help he needs.
I’m sure the coordination and teamwork in those moments can mean the difference between life and death.
I can’t stress enough how great the entire team was at this whole scenario. Our corpsman, Doc Crowley, was phenomenal. He was on top of the situation, and had already applied tourniquets by the time I got there. All we really had to do was get a stretcher laid out so that we could put Brad on top of it, and then get him to an area where the helo could land and pick him up.
Did you make it to the helo?
As Doc Crowley was finishing everything up, TJ and I were laying out the stretcher. As I step on top of the stretcher to get ready to lift Brad up, that’s when the second IED goes off. As surprising as this might sound, I remember pretty much all of it. A lot of guys get knocked out. I don’t know why, but for some reason I didn’t. I do remember getting tossed up into the air. It felt like I was doing cartwheels, although, in reality, I probably only flipped once or twice. I remember landing on my shoulder and my head. The backpack that I was carrying was pretty heavy, and it had some hard stuff on it. As the backpack came down, I remember it hitting my head and making me lightheaded for ten-to-15 seconds. I didn’t really remember who I was, or where I was even at, but once my senses started coming back I realized that I had just stepped on an IED.
Did you panic?
No, I didn’t really panic. I just realized that I needed to get myself out of this hole. I remember that I kind of pushed and dug myself up out of it, and the first thing that I did when I could finally set up straight was look up at the sky. I took a deep breath, and I was like, “Okay, that’s a good sign. If I can breathe then that means there’s nothing wrong with my cardiovascular system.” I could taste the blood and the dirt, but as far as I could tell, everything seemed to be there. This was before I looked down. It felt like my legs were still attached, but they weren’t responding to my commands. I thought I was paralyzed. It just so happened that the light on the end of my rifle was still turned on, and the light was reflecting off the wall. I looked down, and that’s when I realized what had happened.
That’s when the pain hit. I kind of compare to the time when I was a kid. I used to ride my bike all the time, and there was this one time when I crashed. I got up thinking that I was fine, and then I looked and my entire left side was bruised and bloodied. Then, all of a sudden, that was when the pain set in. That’s how this was. Once I saw what had happened, then the pain came in like a tidal wave. I guess the best way that I could explain it is that it felt like my legs were on fire. Almost like someone had set a torch to them. Surprisingly , the most pain that I felt was in my groin. It almost felt like I was being kicked by a horse.
How do you keep calm in a moment like that?
My first thought was that we train for this – actually, we even jokingly talk about it before going out on most patrols. We’ll look around and say, “Say goodbye to your legs. This will be the last time that you use them.” It sounds morbid, but it almost prepares you for a scenario like this. So when it did happen to me, instead of freaking out like you might expect, I knew what to do. I was like, “Okay, I’ve got to start putting tourniquets on my legs so that I don’t bleed out.”
Who helped you?
Luckily, Doc Crowley was in the crater that Brad’s IED had made. His head wasn’t exposed, so he didn’t get hurt. He ran over and started putting tourniquets on my legs with me. I sat back as we were finishing up, and that’s when I felt something off to my left. Then I looked over and saw TJ. I’m not going to get into a lot of the details, but you could tell that he wasn’t looking super well. He wasn’t looking good at all. As soon as Crowley was done with me, he went over to TJ and tried to treat him. Then the rest of the squad came over. They carried us to a collection area where the helo was going to pick us up.
Unfortunately, the blast had knocked off Crowley’s backpack, which is where he stored all of his pain medication, so I had to bear the brunt of the pain until the helo came. They stripped me down as soon as they got me into the helo, assessed any other damages that I may have had, and gave me pain medication for the relief. It was about 40 minutes from beginning to end, but as you can imagine it felt like an eternity. I had a little bit of an hallucination on the helicopter ride – it was something that I can’t even begin to explain [laughs]. When I woke up, I was in the hospital.
How much did your military training help you make it through such a horrific event?
When I was in the hospital, everyone there who was injured by an IED would share stories of what had happened. For a lot of the guys – at least those of us who were conscious through it – the stories are basically the same. Even with something that traumatic, but we didn’t completely lose it like you might think. Maybe it’s because we trained for it, or maybe it’s because we’ve desensitized ourselves to the fact that it could happen to one of us next. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve just stepped on a bomb. Whatever the case, the Hollywood trope of freaking out is not super common.
Let’s talk about what happened in the weeks and months that followed.
Your adrenaline is so high when it’s all happening, and then you’re in and out of consciousness those first few weeks afterward. Everything is a blur, and not just because of the drugs. You’re getting transported to different hospitals, and you’re going under the knife every day or every other day, so you really don’t have time to process it. I usually tell people that it was around month three or four, when I wasn’t in the hospital and I wasn’t on meds – or at least as many meds – that life actually slowed down. It’s those quiet nights when you can’t sleep and nothing’s going on that you realize just how different everything is. And you begin to question not only who you are, but whether your life is ever going to be remotely the same. When you’re missing your legs – or missing any limbs, for that matter – it’s hard to adjust to that.
Was it important for you to set goals during your rehab?
Absolutely. My first goal was to get out of inpatient, start physical therapy, and begin rehab. Once I did that, it was, “Okay, now I’ve got to get back on two feet. I’ve got to get my prosthetics.” Then once I got my prosthetics, it was all about learning how to walk. These were very temporary, short-range goals. I didn’t have any long-range goals in the hospital, which was a big reason why I didn’t have anything driving me forward once I got out. As a result, I ended up in a very dark place. I didn’t have a purpose, which is something that everyone needs in their lives.
How hard was it to keep from being consumed by depression?
Incredibly hard. My mindset early on was that adjusting to a life without legs was going to be impossible. That, mixed with the fact that I was still coping with TJ’s death, and the survivor’s guilt of why I made it and he didn’t, made it extremely difficult. Honestly, if it wasn’t for my support system, who knows how things would have ended up. My mom basically stayed with me the whole year that I was in rehab. My dad came out when he could. My brothers came out when they could. And then having the Wounded Warriors who showed me that it was possible to live life without legs, those things helped things from turning out a lot different.
Photo Courtesy Chris Van Etten and Brava Creative Group
From what I’ve read, your mother was a true inspiration.
I watched my mom go through breast cancer when I was in high school. I remember when it was at its worst, and she was on chemo and stuck in bed, and unable to do anything. Then I remember watching the person that she became on the other end – a happy, vibrant, positive woman who could see the good in anybody, and who could just strike up a conversation with anyone. Seeing her go through that, and then reminding myself that if she can be that strong going through cancer, then I can get through physical therapy and rehab. When things got really tough, she provided the motivation to keep moving, to keep pushing on.
Even though she was also military, I’m sure it was hard for her to hear that you’d been injured.
When something like this happens, the Marine Corps either calls the parents or they go to the house. It happened that my parents were out of town at the time, so they called and got my mom on the phone. When they started out by saying that this was so-and-so from the Marine Corps headquarters, her first thought was that I’d been killed. My dad actually finished listening to the message, and then he was able to tell her that I was alive but dealing with some significant injuries. When I called her later she was crying, and at that point I just said, “Mom, I’m fine. I’m coming home…just a little bit shorter than the last time you saw me [laughs].” As soon as she heard that, she knew that I was going to be okay.
What was the big turning point for you?
It was actually around the one year mark. As you can imagine, the anniversary date of the incident is pretty sensitive, and that first one hit hard. It was an emotionally charged time, and the nightmares came back full force. I wasn’t sleeping. I was extremely depressed. I had just gotten out of the hospital, so I literally had nothing. I was about as low as I could go. I had no purpose. I wasn’t going to physical therapy. I wasn’t trying to learn how to walk. I wasn’t doing anything but sitting at home. I had all the time in the world to think. It was probably the darkest time in my life, and then, somehow, I just got sick of feeling sorry for myself. I got up one morning and decided that I needed to do something. I needed to have a reason to get out of bed, otherwise I would lie there with no purpose. That’s when I decided to go to the gym and start working out.
What’s it like being at that crossroads?
Deciding to go in a positive direction is harder than you might think. The natural tendency is to give up, and I think that’s why a lot of the men and women who get put in that situation end up going down the negative route. It’s really easy to feel sorry for yourself. I don’t think anyone would have blamed me if I had decided to hate the world and hate my life and be mad about everything, but I’d seen what that was doing to my buddies. Some of them were still in the hospital because they simply refused to try to get better. I didn’t want that to be me. I didn’t want to just be some injured guy. I still wanted to be Chris. I still wanted to have a life. I still wanted to do things. I realized that I couldn’t do that if I was just feeling sorry for myself all of the time.
Was going to the gym a continuation of your rehab, or was this next level stuff?
I was trying to learn how to work out with the legs and do some serious lifting. The more I did it the better I felt – physically, mentally, and emotionally – but it didn’t keep me from having bad days. There’s one day in particular that stands out, when I was really feeling sorry for myself. It was just me in the gym for a while. As I was finishing up, an older lady came in. We didn’t say anything to each other, we just nodded casually, and then I grabbed all of my stuff and left. A couple of hours later a friend of mine sent me a message with a screenshot, and he was like, “I think my friend is talking about you.” It was the same lady from the gym. She had posted something on her Facebook about how she was having a bad day, and then she saw a veteran who also happened to be a double-amputee. She wrote say that seeing me was a reminder that maybe her life wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it was just a few hours earlier. For me, it was a classic light bulb moment. I suddenly realized that I have been blessed with a gift, and that I can turn this thing that happened to me into a way to motivate others. From that moment being a positive role model became my purpose. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me. I wanted to people to be motivated by me. That played a big part in my decision to rebuild myself into being someone different.
You started modeling and acting, and you’ve appeared in several national ad campaigns. How did all of this come about?
Working out really helped boost my confidence, and not just in how I looked. I started to focus on my purpose, which included looking for projects where I could share my message with as many people as possible. It was around this time that I heard about Michael Stokes, who was doing a photo series on injured veterans. I saw some of the shots that he’d taken of Alex Minsky, who’s now a friend of mine, and I decided to reach out. The photos were part of a project showcasing wounded and amputee veterans flaunting prosthetics and rock-hard abs in celebration of their post-war bodies, but when I saw them it was more about the power behind the pictures than the sex appeal. For me, the photos showed the world that just because I was different, I didn’t have to be different. I could still be this strong person who could do anything, even though I was missing my legs.
Things took off quickly after those photos were released. I started doing a lot of modeling for book authors, which eventually led to a contract with Jockey, the underwear and workout apparel company. At that point I sat down with my wife and the team representing me – Lisa Strickland, my publicist [and founder and principal of Brava Creative Group], and my management team and had a serious talk about whether I wanted to pursue a career in Hollywood. I’m very grateful that they decided to represent me, because they helped me land General Hospital, 68 Whiskey, as well as a number of other Hollywood events and speaking engagements. It’s been a lot of fun. The best part is that I get to share my story to a bigger audience, and hopefully inspire others who are going through tough times.
I hear acting life on a soap is very fast-paced.
Yeah, General Hospital is extremely fast-paced. You basically shoot an entire episode every day of the workweek. You have to really nail down your lines and know what you’re going to do within three or four takes. It’s a lot different from a regular nighttime show, where you’ve got a whole year to do 12 episodes. I’ve been very fortunate to work on both ends of the spectrum, and they both have their pros and their cons. I have a lot of respect for the actors who have been doing soaps for long periods of time, people like Eric Braeden, because soaps are a beast and you have to keep up.
Photo Courtesy Brava Creative Group
In what ways, if any, did your military career help your acting career?
I think it helped out because acting can get pretty stressful. You have to be able to adapt on the spot. If something’s not coming off the way that the producer or director is wanting, then you have to change things up on the fly. That’s one of the first things they teach you in the military, and that’s that things don’t always go according to plan. As an actor, you can spend all day rehearsing your lines a certain way, and then when you get to the set they may want it done completely differently. You have to figure it out right there. It’s the same thing with the military. There were times when we were on patrol in Afghanistan, and we’d learn of possible threats that we didn’t have the capability of dealing with in at the moment. So, you adapt and find a new route. Handling stress and adapting is key in both worlds.
Acting involves a lot of networking. Is this something that you do to find work?
Actually, I try not to make a big deal about it. In my mind, I’m by no means famous or anything like that, so I try to let my personality do the talking. If someone happens to know of my role on General Hospital, that’s great. If I’m talking to somebody who is interested in learning more, then I’ll engage in that conversation. But I try not to go around and say, “I’m Chris Van Etten and I’m on a soap, you should consider me for a role in your next project.” However, I am helping to break down barriers, and open up opportunities for actors with disabilities. The fact that I am getting parts because I can act, and not because I’m an injured veteran, is also exciting to me. I’ve been a presenter on the Daytime Emmy Awards, and I’ve been interviewed by Michael Fairman of Michael Fairman TV, which is great exposure for me as an actor. People with legitimate disabilities are sought after in Hollywood now. It hasn’t always been this way, so I think we’re making good progress in that direction.
As hard as it might be to believe, there are two Chris Van Ettens involved with General Hospital. The other is an award-winning writer. Do people ever get the two of you confused?
Yes, quite a bit [laughs]. I’ve gotten to meet the other Chris Van Etten, he’s an awesome guy and a great writer. I do get confused with him, especially on Twitter. People will tweet to me and offer suggestions about the storylines, and they expect me to make those changes. My Twitter bio read, “No, I’m not the writer.” [Laughs.]
Photo Courtesy Chris Van Etten
Let’s talk about your modeling career. The Jockey ad campaign is amazing.
I have always been very selective about the companies that I work with. I want to be proud of my relationship with that company, and Jockey is no exception. The relationship started through the recommendation of a friend of mine, who said that Jockey was looking for a disabled veteran for a nationwide ad campaign. I was immediately interested. I did my research and applied for it. I had actually been wearing Jockey underwear before I even started working with them, so there was some familiarity there. But what impressed me most during my research was that Jockey is very much a family-run business. As I got to know the people that were running the campaign, and the people behind the company, I could tell that this was something that I’d be proud doing. I truly appreciate the work that they have put into it and the message that is behind it. The fact that they are celebrating everyday people who are going out there and making differences, and the fact that I got to be one of those people, was a very honorable thing for me.
Please tell me about the short film Walk.
That was actually a passion project that turned out to be very well done. To be honest, I didn’t think it was going to get the reaction that it got. I also didn’t think a lot of people were going to see it, and for some reason I didn’t think anyone would really care. Then it came out and it has been well-received by so many people who were moved by the message behind it. It’s another one of those things that I’m really proud of, because it showed parts of me that I wasn’t really comfortable showing the world – specifically, me without my legs on, which shows the vulnerable side of being an amputee.
Please tell me a little about 68 Whiskey.
68 Whiskey was a really fun experience. Unfortunately, my character dies, because I would’ve loved to have continued on the show [laughs]. Like I was saying earlier, there is a big difference between doing a soap and a primetime show with 12 episodes a season. With 68 Whiskey, I could really focus on each scene. My character, Louisville, is anything but an untarnished hero. It was like that throughout the cast. The show was about real people with real problems trying to do a job.
I hear you are a Star Wars fan. If you could play any role in the next Star Wars film, what would it be?
I am a huge Star Wars fan! More specifically, I’m a Darth Vader fan.
Why Darth Vader?
Because this guy is a quadruple amputee, and he is the strongest force in the universe. Evil things aside, if a quadruple amputee could be that powerful, then what about a double amputee? I’m sure that I can get a few things done [laughs].
Let’s talk fatherhood. How has that changed you?
Having a kid changes everything. I did not know that I was capable of loving someone as much as a parent loves their child. It’s funny, you don’t realize just how selfish you are until you have a kid. Until then, I did everything for myself. Now, everything I do is with my child in mind. I want to make sure that my child has a good future, and I want to do everything I can to be a good dad.
When you’re in the infantry, you come to grips with the fact that sooner or later you’re going to die, and a little bit of that recklessness followed me into my civilian life. But now, with the kid, things are very different. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I’m a worry wart, but I do want to make sure that I stay on top of my health – and not just to look good, but to make sure that I can be around for as long as I can and provide for my son’s future.
If you could sit down and have a beer with anybody, living or dead, who would that be?
Without question, that would be my mom. Unfortunately, she got cancer again and it spread to her lungs, and she wasn’t able to beat it this time. She passed away last Thanksgiving, so to be able to have one more conversation with her would be amazing.
Final Question: If you had one piece of advice for others when it comes to overcoming adversity, what would that be?
I don’t know if this sounds basic or stereotypical, but you can’t give up. It’s so easy to fall into that trap, but everybody on this planet has a capacity to make a difference. Whether you make a difference on a mass scale, or with just a few people, what you do matters.
