They hurried me into a room with more light than I imagined heaven would have. I felt each wobble of the gurney wheels in the fault lines of my broken bones and stared up at the unbearable white, letting it bleach my eyes, hoping that would take my mind off the pain. I had lost too much blood, I had fractures, shrapnel wounds, breaks, and burns, but my wrist had been so badly damaged that it needed the most attention. The silhouette of a surgeon’s head shadowed me for a second, while some assistant put a mask over my mouth and nose and swung my arm out on the right wing of the stainless steel table until it locked perpendicular to my body. I lay half crucified, and finally the anger set in. It washed over me as I considered the fact that I had no idea what I might die for.
Time stretched and bunched, flowed and stalled, to the unpredictable rhythm of a morphine drip. I woke again, not knowing how long I had been out. A single thought shook me. My eyes shot open and I looked down. I was relieved to find all four fingers and a thumb sticking out of the cast on my right forearm. They were discolored and swollen to the size of sausages, but all of them were there. Wires, tubes, and shiny metal rods stuck out of the bleached-white sheets on my bed. Machines surrounded me, beeping, humming. There was the low, muffled sound of air being released. The room was beige, with chipped paint in the corners, but other than that it was a hospital room like any I’d seen anywhere else. Small, no windows, white tiled floor.
Before I was completely awake, a pretty half-Asian nurse walked in and stretched on her tiptoes to change my IV. She smiled down at me like an angel.
“You’re awake. Are you in pain?” Her words and smile were so full of pity and pride.
Everything ached, but I could feel the medicine had dulled it. “I’m okay.”
I saw my boots, flak vest, and helmet in a pile in the corner of the room. She saw me looking at them. “We had to cut your uniform off and dispose of it, but we saved those.”
I stared at that pile so long my eyes lost focus.
After a few moments she asked, “Would you like to use a phone to call home?”
Home. The word broke my trance. “A phone?”
“Yes, maybe you’d like to call a loved one?”
I nodded. She left the room for a minute and came back with a big black cell phone in one hand and a plastic bedpan in the other. “Do you need to relieve yourself before you call?”
Relieve yourself. She let the words roll off her tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. She was really asking if I had to shit, because if I did it would be a two-person operation. There was no getting out of that bed with all the monitors, machines, and braces.
Blood rushed to my face. She must have seen it because she started talking fast about nothing, as if a constant flow of words could stop the embarrassment. The drugs they gave me for the pain usually caused constipation, but sometimes they took a while, she told me. She added that it was all part of her job. She did this all the time. It really wasn’t an issue. I shouldn’t feel bad about it.
Tears came and I hated myself for crying. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn’t. The whole situation seemed so stupid, and there was really no reason for me to bawl like a baby, but I had this flash of anger with no way to do anything about it. Hours before, I was planning and executing combat missions; I’d led men, I’d had the power of life and death, and now I couldn’t even shit by myself.
I turned my head and stared at the pile in the corner while the nurse slid the bedpan under the covers. She told me about the success of the operation on my arm, how it was a testament to the world-class talent in the armed forces combat surgical teams.
The pile of equipment in the corner looked as if the soldier wearing it had suddenly disappeared, letting it all just fall to the floor. The boots, the flak vest, and the helmet on top.
She told me that not many surgical teams in any hospital anywhere would have been able to save my hand.
It felt so unnatural moving my bowels in bed. I could smell the shit.
The boots had the laces cut out, the K pot had black carbon stains on the right side, and the flak vest had small shrapnel holes running up the back.
The rods sticking out of my arm were there to ensure the bone healed correctly, she said. It had been splintered, so they screwed a piece of metal along the radial above and below the fracture.
“I’m done.” I said it so quietly there was no way she could have heard me, so I repeated it louder. “I’m done.”
The wipes she used were warm. I appreciated that.
“That wasn’t hard. I don’t think we’ll have to do that again. Don’t worry,” she said.
Before she left the room she gave me the phone. I held it in my left hand for a while, thinking about whom I should call. Then I realized I didn’t know anyone’s number by heart except little brother Vince’s.
After a few minutes of thinking about it I pushed Vince’s number into the phone. There were a couple clicks and hushed static before a constant clicking, which must have been a substitute for the ring. On the third ring Vince picked up. I could tell I woke him. “Hello?”
“Vince.” It was all I could get out. I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say.
“Philip?”
“I told you they couldn’t kill me,” I said, and laughed, mustering up all the bravado I possibly could.
“What?” He turned very serious.
“They blew me up, shot at me, and even mortared me. My truck was blown up, and a friend of mine…” My voice cracked at the word “friend,” and I had to stop for a moment. When I continued my voice was lower, and grave. “There was an ambush. My friend Eric was killed instantly. I was hurt.”
“Are you okay?”
The fear in his voice put a lump in my throat. “I’m fine. A couple broken bones. I’ll call again later. Tell Mom and Dad that I’m okay. I gotta go.”
I hung up before he could say anything else, closed my eyes, and pressed the phone against my forehead
Sean Davis 