Saturday, September 04, 2004
Via Seamus, this is the last email from a surgical team doctor (Navy) in Iraq as she prepares her staff to rotate back to the states. It's a must read.
Greetings all from hot, hot, hot Iraq,
We are short indeed...although
not quite as short as we had originally thought...our flight home has been
posted and is showing up 3 days later than planned. The good news is that we
leave in the middle of the night and arrive (all admin complete, including
turning our weapons into the armory) ! around dinnertime at Pendleton on the
same day we leave (11 hrs time difference). The other good news is it appears
we've got commercial contract air carriers taking us home...so we don't have to
worry about sleeping on the cold steel deck of an Air Force C-17.
So...we turned over authority of the surgical company last week to our
replacements, who had a serious trial by fire here in multiple ways, including
multiple traumas, surgeries, increased risk to their personal safety, power
outages, water outages, and camel spiders in the hospital...all in their first 4
days. But a few days ago, we heard the helicopters coming and knew they were
dealing with multiple traumas, several of which were going to the OR...and we
sat in our barracks and waited for them to call us if they needed us. They never
did. Last week was the ceremony to mark the official end of our role here. Now
we just wait.
As the days move very slowly by, just waiting, I decided that
one of the things I should work on for my own closure and therapeutic
healing...is a list. The list would be a comparison: "Things That Were Good"
about Iraq and being deployed with the Marines as one of the providers in a
surgical company, and "Things That Were Not Good." Of course, it's quite obvious
that this list will be very lopsided. But I thought I would do it anyway, hoping
that somehow the trauma, the fear, the grief, the laughter, the pride and the
patriotism that have marked this long seven months for me will begin to make
sense, through my writing.
Interestingly, it sort of turned into a poem.
To be expected, I guess.
Most of all it's just therapy, and by now I
should be relatively good at that. Hard to do for yourself, though.
goes...in reverse order of importance...
Things That Were Good
Sunset over the desert...almost always orange
Sunrise over the
desert...almost always red
The childlike excitement of having fresh fruit at
dinner after going weeks without it
Being allowed to be the kind of
clinician I know I can be, and want to be, with no limits placed and no doubts
But most of all,
The United States Marines, our patients...
Walking, every day, and having literally every single person who passes by
say "Hoorah, Ma'am..."
Having them tell us, one after the other, through
blinding pain or morphine-induced euphoria..."When can I get out of here? I just
want to get back to my unit..."
Meeting a young Sergeant, who had lost an
eye in an explosion...he asked his surgeon if he could open the other one...when
he did, he sat up and looked at the young Marines from his fire team who were
being treated for superficial shrapnel wounds in the next room...he smiled, laid
back down, and said, "I only have one good eye, Doc! , but I can see that my
Marines are OK."
And of course, meeting the one who threw himself on a
grenade to save the men at his side...who will likely be the first Medal of
Honor recipient in over 11 years...
My friends...some of them will be
lifelong in a way that is indescribable
My patients...some of them had
courage unlike anything I've ever experienced before
My comrades, Alpha
Surgical Company...some of the things witnessed will traumatize them forever,
but still they provided outstanding care to these Marines, day in and day out,
sometimes for days at a time with no break, for 7 endless months
but not least...
Holding the hand of that dying Marine
Things That Were Not Good
Terrifying camel spiders, poisonous scorpions, flapping
bats in the darkness, howling, territorial wild dogs, flies that insisted on
landing on our faces, giant, looming mosquitoes, invisible sand flies that carry
Wearing long sleeves, full pants and combat
boots in 132 degrees
Random and totally predictable power outages that led
to sweating throughout the night
Sweating in places I didn't know I could
sweat...like wrists, and ears
The roar of helicopters overhead
resounding thud of exploding artillery in the distance
The popping of
Not knowing if any of the above sounds is a good thing, or bad
The siren, and the inevitable "big voice" yelling at us to take
Not knowing if that siren was on someone's DVD or if the big voice
would soon follow
The cracking sound of giant artillery rounds splitting
open against rock and dirt
The rumble of the ground...
The shattering of
Hiding under flak jackets and kevlar helmets, away from the
broken windows, waiting to be told we can come to the hospital...to treat the
ones who were not so lucky...
Watching the helicopter with the big red cross
on the side landing at our pad
Worse...watching Marine helicopters filled
with patients landing at our pad...because we usually did not realize they were
Ushering a sobbing Marine Colonel away from the trauma bay while
several of his Marines bled and cried out in pain inside
21-year-old Marine with three Purple Hearts...and listening to him weep because
he felt ashamed of being afraid to go back
Telling a room full of stunned
Marines in blood-soaked uniforms that their comrade, that they had tried to
save, had just died of his wounds
Trying, as if in total futility, to do
anything I could, to ease the trauma of group after group...that suffered loss
after loss, grief after inconsolable grief...
Washing blood off the boots of
one of our young nurses while she told me about the one who bled out in the
trauma bay...and then the one who she had to tell, when he pleaded for the
truth, that his best friend didn't make it...
Listening to another of our
nurses tell of the Marine who came in talking, telling her his name...about how
she pleaded with him not to give up, told him that she was there for him...about
how she could see his eyes go dull when he couldn't fight any longer...
And last, but not least...
Holding the hand of that dying Marine