Memorial Day

I had to work.  I didn't want to be there; none of us did.  But, hospitals are open 24/7/365, and people still get sick and hurt.

We had struck a deal that we would work Memorial Day in exchange for getting 4th of July off.  To be honest, it seemed like a good deal.  It's difficult for me to wrap my head around the concept of "celebrating" Memorial Day.  To me, it's more a time for somber reflection.  Given that the mass public has merged Memorial Day and Veterans' Day into all-encompassing "Thank those who serve" holidays, it's easier to just work, anyway.  (Granted, I like that the public does want to thank the troops, but... I feel like channeling Monty Python and saying, "I'm not dead yet!")

So, I'm at work.  And quickly, the discontentment of our shift sets in.  We discover that there will be no civilians joining us.  Admittedly, it rubs us a bit the wrong way because it is a "military" holiday.  Unlike Thanksgiving, this is a holiday about the troops and it was easy fodder that the troops were working while the civilians were home.  And then, we realized the normally scheduled military shift wasn't coming in, either.  Some shifts are more equal than others, apparently.  Yes, we'd all agreed to work our normal schedules, yet somehow the military techs scheduled to work Monday morning were... absent.  So be it.  We'll embrace the suck and do our job.

And we did.  While we were short staffed by over 70%, we tackled things well.  Sure, we were being bitchy and griping, but it was the fun sort.  We kept coming up with new ways to complain.  It's what Soldiers do... fairly well.  Gripe.  Time-honored tradition.

And then, the day changed.  We got a patient, a very special patient.  Now, I can't tell you who he was, but he was a Medal of Honor recipient.

What are the chances?  A MoH patient on Memorial Day.  Naturally, we couldn't resist learning more about who was coming in.  His citation was... humbling.  In today's Army, most of us worry about survival.  We do everything to ensure our survival.  And in the medical field, well... we're not likely to be charging the enemy any time soon.

My Patient, a member of Company X, distinguished himself by conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action against the enemy.

His platoon, in defensive positions on Hill XXX, came under ruthless attack by a numerically superior and fanatical hostile force, accompanied by heavy artillery, mortar, and machinegun fire which inflicted numerous casualties on the platoon.
His comrades were forced to withdraw due to lack of ammunition but My Patient, although wounded in an exchange of grenades, continued to deliver deadly fire into the ranks of the onrushing assailants until a ruptured cartridge rendered his rifle inoperative.
Immediately leaving his position, My Patient rushed the enemy armed only with rifle and bayonet.
Fearlessly engaging the foe, he killed 6 of the enemy before falling unconscious from grenade, bayonet, and bullet wounds but his heroic action momentarily halted the enemy advance and enabled his unit to counterattack and retake the lost ground.
The indomitable fighting spirit, outstanding courage, and tenacious devotion to duty clearly demonstrated by My Patient reflect the highest credit upon himself, the infantry, and the U.S. Army.

 Let's read that again... his rifle was inoperative.  He'd already been wounded.  His buddies retreated.  It says he charged armed only with rifle and bayonet, but... the rifle was inoperative.  He's charging machineguns armed with a knife and a club.  And he's wounded.  He was 20 at the time.  Just 20.

I'm not sure about others, but... when I read citations like that, I can't help but wonder... would I do the same?  Could I do the same?  Machismo requires me to say, "Of course!"  But, in reality... I don't know.  I'd like to think I could... that I would... but, it's the Medal of Honor precisely because such actions are rare. 

And so, I'm helping him through multitudes of exams.  Some of them, I'm standing there holding him during his x-ray... he's much older now than from the time of the citation... but, his sixty year old wounds are still plainly visible.  The effects permanent.  And to see the wounds radiologically...  My respect increases.  And I stand there, holding him.  Looking into his eyes.  And he to me.  The trust in there to help him find what's bothering him.

I think of all the speeches and ceremonies he's been to and heard over the years; the pomp and gratitude that comes with living to receive the Medal of Honor.  And my vocabulary fails me.  And I know he wants to just be himself, to not be identified only by the Medal... but, I can't help myself.  I lean down and whisper, "I know you've heard it many times, but... 'Thank you' for your service."  What else can I say?  And I don't want to focus on it.  He is a patient...

And right there, with him, I didn't want to complain about working any more.  I was honored to have been there... to have my life path intersect, however briefly, with someone so special.

But it turns out, that that wasn't why I was working that day.

Towards the end of the day, another of the long stream of patients came in.  Nothing special indicated on this patient's chart, but... little did I know.  She says her foot hurts.  So, I start a foot exam.  During the exam, I notice her extensive tattoos... memorial tattoos.  and they're excellent and quite detailed.  I compliment her on her tattoos.  And as the words come out, I notice the date on the dog tag... the man memorialized... died a few months ago.

And, her voice starts to waver.  I look, and it's like looking back in time and into a mirror.  I see me... a few years ago.  When the pain was still incredibly raw and on the surface.  When you're trying to go on, trying to put a brave face for the world, trying to... play the role the world wants you to play - that it's all ok and you're moving on.  Yet, inside, you can't... you're nowhere near ready.

The exam can wait.  I start to talk to her... and share my experience.  Her eyes meet mine and lock.  The desperation... the hope... to meet someone who knows, who has been there.  We talk for quite a bit... I run x-rays throughout the exam... but, mostly, I talk.  She really is a peek back in time.

And I try to offer her that Hope.  To cut through the tons of grief counseling BS that she's no doubt heard... from people who haven't lost their True Love prematurely.  And we talk... and talk... and she talks... and I reassure.  I don't promise that it ill get better.  I tell her that it doesn't... that she will adjust and adapt to it.  And the healing is long-time.  To not feel rushed... no matter what The World expects of her... To take it at her own pace.

We hug... I feel the desperation and rawness in her clutching embrace.  And I know why I worked today.

Memorial Day... barbecues and beaches for some... for others, the reason for the holiday is all too close.  The wounds of war are long-lasting, and we carry them either on our own bodies or in the Hearts of those who love us and hold us close... waiting for us to come home, whether we actually do or not.

What an Honor it was to work this Memorial Day.