On this the eve of Veteran’s Day as I finish eating my Subway sandwich, and ice cold Coke, cuddled up warm on the couch watching some random show on a 36”plasma TV, fuming that the incessant barking of the neighbors dog is disrupting my respite from what I think has been a hard day I realize that somewhere in the dark of a desert night is a soldier sleeping on a Humvee, or eating from an MRE or watching the world through a gun sight, or carrying a fallen comrade on his back. See I am essentially just an average, lazy, American who lives day to day grateful for my freedom but never really pausing to fully understand it’s price. Sure I feel all fuzzy on 4th of July while watching fireworks and ooing and aaahing with the kids at all the bright colors.
I get misty eyed at the multitude of advertisements honoring our servicemen for Armistice day, but what consideration do I give to their dedication on the other 363 days of the year when I’m complaining that my $4 cup of coffee wasn’t made right, or I’m 5 people deep in one of 30 lines at Wal-Mart and my children are fighting, my ice cream is melting, my basket is filled with some consumer-crap creature comforts I can’t afford and wondering how hard can it be for the cashier to stop chatting and just put the shit in the bag so I can get back in my minivan and go home and make supper! To top it all off, I work in medicine where I spend my professional life providing anesthesia some days for boob jobs and facelifts.
Not this month, not this week, not this day..
This day, I am 200 miles away from my husband and children as part of an anesthesia rotation at Irwin Army Community Hospital in Ft. Riley Kansas and my loneliness and fatigue have made me profoundly aware of the sacrifices our military men and women make all year long. I’m humbled by the daily stories I hear and the commitment to God and country I bear witness to. I have always been patriotic having served as a Navy wife for the first six years of my marriage, but I have been far removed from that life and have forgotten how hard it really is.
At the same time I recognize that there are over 100,000 soldiers, sailors and airmen in uniform still serving in war zones overseas who deserve my appreciation. For Christ’s sake, according to Icasualties.org there have been 22 fatalities this month and it's only the 10th! Can you fathom there is a website dedicated to keeping track of military death? But what do you do for someone who takes on RPG fire so that my children can choose between chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers at McDonalds? What do you say to someone who comes back with PTSD and down one limb just so I can get pissed off every time I’m driving behind someone who’s going 5 mph under the speed limit and I consider brandishing the gun I carry in my glove compartment that the 2nd amendment affords me the right to have? How do you comfort the women who is given a folded flag as a consolation for the death of her husband so I can feel jilted when I’ve spent too much at the makeup counter and they’ve run out of the gift with purchase travel compact? And, how do you replace the last 17 months a mother has missed since the birth of her first child six weeks postpartum so I can play ball with my kid in the backyard and argue with my neighbor over whether Obama or Nancy Pelosi is the bigger antichrist?
The answer to these questions is GRATITUDE!
But is a simple thank you for your service enough? Well, I am grateful that I have been fortunate to practice anesthesia for the last several weeks with some of the most proficient nurse anesthetists this country has to offer.
I have many stories I’ve collected but this story is the most haunting. The other day I held the hand of a 20-year-old kid who was scheduled to have shoulder surgery for an injury that went unattended to while serving the last six months of his second tour in Iraq. I was preparing my equipment to place a nerve block that would give him pain relief when he stopped me to inquire when I was going to give him “the good drugs”.
He apologized for his nervousness by saying he was afraid of needles. Trying to be funny, I replied, “well then I shouldn’t find any tattoos or piercings should I”? He pulled up the sleeve of his gown and showed me a tattoo of Psalms 18:34-50 on his wrist and Psalms 144:1 on his back.
I continued my work washing his neck with sterile solution, and while driving a 4-inch needle in his neck tears fell from his eyes.
Our conversation started with my feeble attempt to ally his anxiety by asking the content of the scripture; “It gives me strength Ma’am, ya know to remind me of why we’re over there.” “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, “I still really struggle with anxiety since I came home.” It’s okay I replied, could I get your wife, would that help? “No NO, he insisted she can’t see me like this! Can you just hold my hand for a minute and I’ll be fine?” “Sure”, I said. I set down my gear, nothing like the weight of a rucksack and Kevlar, and stroked his trembling hand. We talked for a few minutes about random things and then he was wheeled back to the OR. As I followed my supervisor, she whispered, “Make sure you talk to him when he wakes up, silence makes the soldiers crazy because over there bad shit happens after it gets quiet… Oh, and no banging drawers around... they think its gunfire.” I must have looked terrified, but I answered, “Sure, okay, no problem”. As I stood over his head and before placing my mask on his face, I leaned in and whispered…”Don’t be afraid sir, everything will be okay, nothing bad will happen to you, not on my watch!”
This fear, his never feeling safe or secure again, this is the price of my freedom and thank you will never seem like enough. So for the next couple weeks while spending 40-hour shifts on the labor deck and when I’m tempted to blurt out “Jesus, I just want to go home”, I’m going to try to remember that all over Iraq and Afghanistan, somewhere out there in the dark, there is a soldier who is thinking the exact same thing!
Happy Veteran's Day!
I get misty eyed at the multitude of advertisements honoring our servicemen for Armistice day, but what consideration do I give to their dedication on the other 363 days of the year when I’m complaining that my $4 cup of coffee wasn’t made right, or I’m 5 people deep in one of 30 lines at Wal-Mart and my children are fighting, my ice cream is melting, my basket is filled with some consumer-crap creature comforts I can’t afford and wondering how hard can it be for the cashier to stop chatting and just put the shit in the bag so I can get back in my minivan and go home and make supper! To top it all off, I work in medicine where I spend my professional life providing anesthesia some days for boob jobs and facelifts.
Not this month, not this week, not this day..
.
This day, I am 200 miles away from my husband and children as part of an anesthesia rotation at Irwin Army Community Hospital in Ft. Riley Kansas and my loneliness and fatigue have made me profoundly aware of the sacrifices our military men and women make all year long. I’m humbled by the daily stories I hear and the commitment to God and country I bear witness to. I have always been patriotic having served as a Navy wife for the first six years of my marriage, but I have been far removed from that life and have forgotten how hard it really is.
At the same time I recognize that there are over 100,000 soldiers, sailors and airmen in uniform still serving in war zones overseas who deserve my appreciation. For Christ’s sake, according to Icasualties.org there have been 22 fatalities this month and it's only the 10th! Can you fathom there is a website dedicated to keeping track of military death? But what do you do for someone who takes on RPG fire so that my children can choose between chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers at McDonalds? What do you say to someone who comes back with PTSD and down one limb just so I can get pissed off every time I’m driving behind someone who’s going 5 mph under the speed limit and I consider brandishing the gun I carry in my glove compartment that the 2nd amendment affords me the right to have? How do you comfort the women who is given a folded flag as a consolation for the death of her husband so I can feel jilted when I’ve spent too much at the makeup counter and they’ve run out of the gift with purchase travel compact? And, how do you replace the last 17 months a mother has missed since the birth of her first child six weeks postpartum so I can play ball with my kid in the backyard and argue with my neighbor over whether Obama or Nancy Pelosi is the bigger antichrist?
The answer to these questions is GRATITUDE!
But is a simple thank you for your service enough? Well, I am grateful that I have been fortunate to practice anesthesia for the last several weeks with some of the most proficient nurse anesthetists this country has to offer.
I have many stories I’ve collected but this story is the most haunting. The other day I held the hand of a 20-year-old kid who was scheduled to have shoulder surgery for an injury that went unattended to while serving the last six months of his second tour in Iraq. I was preparing my equipment to place a nerve block that would give him pain relief when he stopped me to inquire when I was going to give him “the good drugs”.
He apologized for his nervousness by saying he was afraid of needles. Trying to be funny, I replied, “well then I shouldn’t find any tattoos or piercings should I”? He pulled up the sleeve of his gown and showed me a tattoo of Psalms 18:34-50 on his wrist and Psalms 144:1 on his back.
I continued my work washing his neck with sterile solution, and while driving a 4-inch needle in his neck tears fell from his eyes.
Our conversation started with my feeble attempt to ally his anxiety by asking the content of the scripture; “It gives me strength Ma’am, ya know to remind me of why we’re over there.” “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, “I still really struggle with anxiety since I came home.” It’s okay I replied, could I get your wife, would that help? “No NO, he insisted she can’t see me like this! Can you just hold my hand for a minute and I’ll be fine?” “Sure”, I said. I set down my gear, nothing like the weight of a rucksack and Kevlar, and stroked his trembling hand. We talked for a few minutes about random things and then he was wheeled back to the OR. As I followed my supervisor, she whispered, “Make sure you talk to him when he wakes up, silence makes the soldiers crazy because over there bad shit happens after it gets quiet… Oh, and no banging drawers around... they think its gunfire.” I must have looked terrified, but I answered, “Sure, okay, no problem”. As I stood over his head and before placing my mask on his face, I leaned in and whispered…”Don’t be afraid sir, everything will be okay, nothing bad will happen to you, not on my watch!”
Happy Veteran's Day!
