The Man Without a Soul

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.