I'm not going to bore you with a
long flaccid description of Iraq, beyond the people the only thing worthy of
note is the smell, diesel fuel, feces of all sorts, decomposing flesh, all
simmering in summer temperatures ranging from 100 degrees Fahrenheit to 150
degrees Fahrenheit. Permeating into your clothes, your hair, your skin, it
bonds to molecular structure. Regardless of showers, bleach, or any number of
hygienic measures you remain tainted, encased in a layer of filth.
My first month encrusted in the
grime was spent working night shift at the FOB (Forward Operating Base) medical
facility. Simplicity at it's finest, I played computer games, watched movies,
drugged insomniacs, consoled sexual assault victims, and fought an epic
conquest against both malingering homesickness and drowsiness. Once the shock
and awe of my responsibilities eroded, despondency set in. Awkwardly cleaning,
sterilizing and suturing a female who attempted anal sex minus lubrication was
not exactly the reason I had both joined, and volunteered, for a combat
deployment.
Nights turned to nights, and days
wound into days, and my complacency grew. I no longer cared to remember the
stories, cries, misgivings and rants of the liars, narcissist, and hypochondriacs
that were my patients. Once burning feverishly, the light of my eyes, and the
passion in my heart began to quell, no longer a roaring flame.
The radio squawked, a rare trauma
call. A suicide bomber had driven his beaten Honda civic into the side of one
our behemoth MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) Vehicles. Fortunately the
300lbs of high explosive wired to his bumper failed to detonate, and he was
ejected through the windshield head first into the the heavily armored side of
the MRAP. My heart did not begin to race, and my alertness did not increase.
Calls such as this were often handled by the team of doctor who slept in the
back of the clinic, it was merely my responsibility to awaken them, brief them
on what information we had, and stand by the emergency surgical/treatment ward
to conduct menial tasks such as blood mopping, suctioning, and gaining IV
access. The janitorial work of the medical field. I transcribed what
information the Combat Medic on ground was providing, the patients vitals, heart
rate, blood pressure, and temperature, were not too bad. I barely managed a
stroll in waking the providers. The majority of them, unsurprisingly, waved me
off and returned to the comfortable escape of sleep. Only two, Captain Matthew
and Major T, arose to accept the patient. My shift partner, Eric, and I place
the sign at the desk "Currently Occupied in the ER, Standby Unless Life or
Death", to inform the usual midnight malcontents of our whereabouts.
Set up in the white and blue
packaged sterility of the trauma bay, its walls lined in all manner of medical
equipment, we each assumed our stations. No nerves, just apathy. I yawn,
loudly, and the rest of the group soon followed. Standing there quietly, what
was there to say? Another radio squawk. The double doors blocking us from the
outside world burst open as this former suicide bomber was brought in
hurriedly. The Combat Medic rattled off an impressive note, informing us of
physical findings, vitals, and other such usually necessary information. Major
T thanked him tonelessly as we buzzed into our choreographed routine. Eric slid
in the Foley catheter effortlessly into the shriveled penis of our 40's
something, excessively hairy, pudgy patient. Captain Matthew ensures the airway
is clear and established, when stationed at the patient's head, I discovered
the damage. I vaguely remember muttering some sort of expletive when my double
gloved hand, palpating for exactly what I found, loosened the cracked bone of
the bomber's skull. It fell pinging, off of the metal framework of the table. I
explored more, visually now, and discovered a hole about the size of a coke
can, right above the top of the spine. The brain, where we dream, where we
learn, where our hopes and desires flourish and crest, was merely a gray mass.
Unimpressive and underwhelming. The vitals machines began to beep, his
temperature was 109 degrees Fahrenheit. He was dead, we all knew it at this
point, I lacked the concern to bandage the gaping hole in his skull, we were
breathing for him, and a collective sigh rose from the room. For the first
time, I noticed the patients eyes, they had not moved or blinked. Deep brown,
with flecks of hazel, unwavering, dilated pupils staring to nothingness. No
light burning, and barely a heart beating. I didn't hate him, or even pity him.
A complete and utter apathy. Not comparable to a lab animal, as those pluck at
my heartstrings. This patient, this man, had nothing. Cattle led to slaughter
have their final breath, the last look at a bright blue expanse.
Major T and Captain Matthew
instructed Eric and I to practice on the sweating, for all purposes, cadaver
that laid in life supported only by machinery. We exercised our skills
completely, venous cut downs and surgical airways among a myriad of others.
There were no patient reactions, no twinges of pain, or screams of agony. Just
the same eyes, staring unending at the surgical lights above. As our practice
concluded we removed our interventions and began to clean the patient, somewhat
unwillingly. Major T gave us a solemn nod and returned to bed along with
Captain Matthew. All the equipment was removed, I slowly removed the tracheal
tube that provided the appropriate ventilation to ensure breathing. As the
patient's chest stopped,the pace of his heart slowed, I stared into those
steadfast windows searching for a glimmer of anything, whether it be pain of
peace. Nothing, even as he crossed the threshold into whatever awaited him
after his life.
After handing off the corpse, along
with appropriate paperwork to the Iraqi authorities, I plopped down into my
spinning desk chair, and resumed my computer game. "Do you think that man
still had a soul when he died?" Eric's question caught me off guard.
"Depends on your personal beliefs" I shot back, not even looking up
from my laptop. I decided to expand, not wanting to seem unsympathetic, such
philosophic questions were important to Eric. "When that man came into our
ER, he was already dead, more a butchers side of meat than anything. You could
even say he was a man without a soul, if that suits your fancy". Eric
thought momentarily, and nodded emphatically, placing the headphones running
from his portable DVD player back in.
Feeling that layer of encrusted
filth intensify I headed to the latrine, giving my hands and face a quick
scrub, I looked into the mirror. As I scrubbed away I stared intently.Deep
brown, with flecks of hazel, unwavering, dilated pupils staring to nothingness,
barely a light burning, and hardly a heart beating.
