September 23rd, 2009 0100
Surgery sucks. It’s a simple as that. What makes it crappier than usual, being stuck in the middle of this god-forsaken country when you need it. Recovering blows too. But it sure made Nat’s day when I told her I got to take a helicopter ride. I didn’t tell her why. I don’t want her to worry. My mom assured me that all Nat knows is that I went for a trip on a helicopter, but now I am back.
I hate that I have to lie to her. If I was back home, we would be able to make her understand that Mommy just had to have an operation, but she’s going to be ok. She would have gone with me to the hospital, kept me smiling till the pain medication kicked in and they wheeled me out.
What did I get instead? A rushed HMMWV ride to the TMC with one of my NCO’s. Poked and prodded by military nurses. (which I should be used to after all this time, but it was awkward that time for some unknown reason.) I hate that I cried. That I wanted my Mom there to hold my hand and calm me down.
When they uttered those words, “you need surgery” I felt my stomach launch out from under me. Between the pain in my abs and the reality of the situation I think I broke somehow. I shake my head now, thinking about it. They had given me my opportunity to go home with this. They told me they would fly me out immediately to Germany where they would do the surgery. From there, it was Walter Reed for recovery and physical therapy, then Ft. Lewis to de-mob.
What did my dumb ass do though? I staunchly said no. I was three months from getting out of this country. I started this deployment with my guys, I was finishing with them. I wasn’t going to go home and twiddle my thumbs in some hospital while my guys busted their humps in the sand.
So here I sit, instead twiddling my thumbs in my CHU. I’m on restricted duty, a tad extreme in my opinion. I get to work from my bed, doing “non-exertive” work till I am released. I hate it. I’m not even allowed to go and work out. Nothing.
I guess it hasn’t been all bad though. Miah takes his lunch to run to the DFAC and brings me something that I can eat. The problem is at this point, nothing tastes good. Not that it did before the surgery, but now especially. God I feel like I am whining really bad. I wonder if I would whine this bad back home?
On top of all this, I damn near slapped someone today in the shower trailer. I was minding my own business, content to take my fucking three minute shower. When lo and behold, some bitch wanted to run her mouth about my scars. Well they aren’t really scars yet, they are incisions, but still.
I ignored them as best I could, hoping into shower, but their snarky “did you see her stomach?” rattled around, still do. Yeah so what I have five nice scars on my stomach from a rushed surgery in fucking Iraq girls. Yeah I will never be able to pierce my navel, or wear a cute bikini like you anorexic hags. But here is a news flash for you. I never intended on getting my navel pierced or wearing a bikini anyways.
I suppose letting the careless words of some bored girls get to me doesn’t help, but I think I am just at an all-time low right now. Have been since I woke up after surgery. I feel crappy, sore, and just sick and tired.
I think the joke is over…they can say April Fools…you’ve really been in Texas this whole time, and let us go home. I know I am not the only one that thinks it, but I can’t help but think I am right now. I guess it’s the isolated feeling. It was the same at the hospital. No one talks to you while you are there. I lay in my bed, sleeping most of the time, thanks to my medicine.
The nurse would stop by check to make sure I was ok, and remind me to try and eat later. Who feels like eating honestly after surgery? Plus what’s worse than your standard hospital food? Iraq hospital food. It’s on a whole new level…granted it’s just DFAC food, but still. You add a depressing hospital and it instantly gets worse.
The only break in the monotony of my night, is lunch, when Miah brings me something to eat. I swear he is my shining light here. While I can’t walk myself to the DFAC to get chow, he doesn’t have to take time out of his shift and sacrifice eating to bring me food.He sits here, trying to make me smile, making sure I take my pills before I go to bed.
I’s day he mothers me, but that sounds odd to say about one’s boyfriend. But it’s true. He knows what I am allowed to eat, when I have to take my meds. He rocks and I am thankful to have him here. Granted I am thankful for all my guys around me. In their own odd, sadistic ways, they make this place bearable, but that doesn’t fade the nagging feelings away.
Maybe I just need to rest. Try setting up a webcam with my mom tomorrow at some point. She’s at work right now I think. But her last email sounded like she’s not quite sure I’m ok. Like a mother, she’s convinced only she can fix me up. Of course with a few calls from Miah and Mandy and the other “bastard children” she’s somewhat assured that I am in good hands.
I guess that’s the best I can get for now. The best anyone could get really. Not much longer now and this will be just something I joke about over a beer with my family.
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