by J. B. McGee
The nurses are carrying the litter, which is just another word for a gurney, with my patient while I trail behind filling out the MIST Casualty Treatment Card with what I’ve done to treat him. The helicopter has landed, and I see the other patient coming in. The Battle Buddy isn’t recognizable. He’s covered in dirt, grime, and blood. I can’t tell you the color of his skin. I’m sure it’s been weeks since they’ve showered or brushed their teeth.
It’s always noisy here, especially when we have incoming helicopters. They are easy targets for the enemy, who want to be able to say they caused the next Blackhawk down. I know they fire mortars off a lot. We’ve been lucky that their aim hasn’t been good.
This time the noises are different. There’s a high pitched whistling. It’s unique, and it’s something I’ve never heard before. Like the smell of burnt skin, I know it’s not a sound I’ll ever forget. In an instant, the battle buddy who is bringing in the latest casualty yells while lunging at me. For a brief moment, I recognize those milk chocolate eyes. “Incoming! Cover!” I hear right as everything goes blank. It goes black.
“Move, move,” echoes in my ear as I get a glimpse of his large body tackling me. We’re both blown back. I’m alive, I think. I hear, “I’m not gonna leave you. Stay with me, Alex. Stay with me.” I can’t see him because I can’t keep my eyes open, but I know that voice. I’ve tried to banish it from my memory, but to no avail.
“Dr. Hart,” a woman’s voice asks.
I open my eyes. “Drew,” I say.
The pity on her face is obvious. I recognize that look because I’ve used it before with my own patients. “There’s no one here named Drew.”
My head hurts so badly. Actually my entire body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder. Even taking a breath causes the ache to worsen. “I saw him. He saved me,” I mutter.
“You got hit. You’re on a lot of pain medication,” she explains.
She thinks I’m crazy. This nurse actually thinks I don’t know what I saw. “It’s not the meds. I saw Drew,” I insist.
“Drew who? I’ll check for you.”
“Foster. His name is Drew Foster,” my voice cracks.
She smiles politely. “Okay, I’ll be back. Just try to rest.”
While I wait, I clench my eyes closed. I see the explosion. I see him. It’s as real as anything I’ve ever known.
When she returns momentarily, she confirms. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hart. There’s no Drew Foster in your company.”
“I’m not crazy. I know it was him at the explosion. I recognized his voice!” I yell, completely frustrated.
She nods. “Why don’t I call in someone to come talk with you? Maybe that would help.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t understand why you’re keeping him from me.”
“We’re not keeping him from you. There is no one deployed that would have been in the same area by that name,” she insists.
“Surely he would have been hurt with me. He’d be here with me.” Then my thoughts wander into uncharted territory. It’s not a place I can fathom being. Maybe he’s dead. What if I was on the brink of death and saw him? Like in the movies. I’ve had patients tell me that they saw loved ones when they were in critical condition and we weren’t sure they’d make it. I swallow the large lump in my throat. The familiar feeling of bricks taking occupancy on my chest resumes. It’s been a long time since I felt this kind of pain, this kind of pressure. “Fatalities?”
“None,” she smiles proudly as she puts medication through my IV. “This is just another dose for pain.”
I gasp for air, like I’ve been holding my breath under water for hours. “Thank goodness for that.” That still doesn’t explain my situation. I know I saw him. “Thank you for your help,” I offer.
In my experience as a physician, if I don’t cool it, they will think I’ve completely lost my mind. Maybe I have. Fatigue sets in from whatever she just gave me, and I drift back into the phase of sleep where I can hear what’s going on around me, but I really couldn’t care less.
This is when I hear what I had feared. “I think she has Acute Stress Disorder. She keeps asking for someone named Drew Foster. Talking about the explosion.”
I don’t know how long it’s been, or where I am for that matter. I’ve been in and out of consciousness, but mostly out. My entire body aches. My right leg is in traction. It only takes me a second to realize it’s my knee that hurts. I reach over and press the nurse call button. The intercom comes on, “How can we help you?”
“Send my nurse, please,” I manage to mutter.
The voice comes back with, “Anything she can bring to you?”
“Can I get something for pain?” I ask, trying to hold my breath to manage the pain.
“I’ll ask her. She’ll be in soon.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, then try to doze back off to sleep. Except the pain is too much for me to do anything other than grimace, wondering what my prognosis will be.
The door opens and a nurse appears. “Hi there, Dr. Hart.”
“Hi.” I nod.
“I’ve got some pain medication that will go through your IV.”
I glance down to my hands, and I see bruises. I’ve never had the best veins. The IV is actually now in my forearm. I offer it to her. “Where am I? What about Drew? Have you been able to find him?”
“Oh. You’re in Germany.” Her pleasant demeanor changes. “I heard you might ask about him.”
I roll my eyes. “I saw him. This isn’t Acute Stress Disorder,” I plead. “I’m a doctor for cryin’ out loud.” The more I talk, the more I hurt. My heart and my body. “I know what I saw. It was real, he was real.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sure he was. It’s just we haven’t been able to locate anyone by that name.” She disposes of the syringe into the red sharps container, pulls the trigger of the foam hand sanitizer, and then leans up against the wall. “This must be so hard for you. When you’re feeling better, we can get a psych consult. It might help to just talk to someone. Sort through what you saw, experienced.”
“Sure,”I sigh. The medicine is making the lids of my eyes heavy. “Whatever.”
I was transferred to a rehab facility because they think that I have Acute Stress Disorder. I know for a fact that when people are told something enough times, they start to believe it. So I can’t seem to wrap my mind around my own situation. Am I absolutely sure I was with Drew? I did see my dad that time at the creek, and it was really Drew. What if it wasn’t either one of them? What if all this time, I dreamed him? My own little coping mechanism.
I can’t figure out if hearing his voice was some sort of a vision, or if it was real. Even though every other part of him was unidentifiable, those eyes were so familiar. The most unique milk chocolatey brown I’ve ever seen. When I looked into them, it was like I was looking into my soul, my inner home.
The evidence certainly points to me being crazy. They’ve looked for him. The facts can’t be denied that there is and was no Drew Foster deployed with me. So for that, I can’t blame the medical professionals for believing the explosion triggered memories of my parent’s death...of Drew, but I know myself. I can’t believe it.
The physical injuries I’ve sustained are nothing compared to the mental blows. At this point, I almost wish I hadn’t survived. Every sight or sound triggers a compartmentalized box of horrific images I stored while deployed.
Even the most gruesome Hollywood movie can’t do justice for what I just experienced. Maybe that’s because in movies we only experience the visual. Touching the blood is impossible. Smelling the stench of death can’t be captured on a film roll. Watching the death of a main character can’t compare to losing the people I have lived with and loved as if they are my brother or sister over and over again.
Thankfully, my phone rings and distracts me from this dark path my thoughts were headed down. “Hello.”
“Alex?” Memaw asks, her voice quivering.
My mind starts
to race, and thoughts immediately go to my Papa. I dread getting phone calls like these. Immediately, I can tell something is wrong and that my life will forever be changed, usually for the worst. I don’t want to say anything. I just sit here hoping that maybe if I hold my breath, if I don’t say a word, my dreaded fears won’t be confirmed.
“Alex?” She asks again.
I mumble a weak, “Yeah.”
I already know what is coming next. The pit in my stomach, the aching in my soul, it’s familiar. Bricks start piling on my chest. Breathing becomes challenging. I know what she’s going to say, but it doesn’t prepare my heart. “It’s your Papa.”
Wetness streams down the sides of my face. There’s a small ounce of hope that resides in a tiny box deep within my being. “Okay,” I mutter, begging, praying, and pleading with God to please not let this be the worst case scenario. “What about him?” I ask.
“It was his heart, Alex,” she cries. Was. It was his heart. My chest begins to pound, and there is no containing the wails that quickly follow. This pain, this hurt, has been such a mainstay of my life, yet I will never be used to it. The thought that I didn’t get to say goodbye plays on repeat in my mind. Not this kind of goodbye.
Papa said every year, “This might be my last Christmas, ya know.” No matter how many times he said it, I would always roll my eyes and swat his arm as I said, “Nonsense. Don’t talk like that.” And all I can think about right now is that he was right. There will be no more Christmases, no more birthdays, no more sitting on his lap. He was my strength in every tragedy I’ve ever experienced. I don’t know how I’ll survive this. I wasn’t ready. It can’t be his time. I can’t deal with this right now.
I was able to get emergency leave because Memaw and Papa had custody of me, so they are, at this point, considered my next of kin. I’ve been in Bethesda, Maryland for several weeks due to rehabilitation for my knee injury and acute stress disorder. I’m thankful for this time on the plane ride home.
That’s the one thing about plane rides in the military. There are no posh seats, refreshments, WiFi, or movies to entertain me. There might be a Private First Class, but there won’t be a first class section. This time, I’m thankful for the hours to just think and reflect.
Everything happens for a reason, and I know it’s all in good time, even if it’s not in my time. I just don’t understand. I can’t grasp my head around it. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand why it happened now, losing Papa. People used to always tell me after my parents passed away that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. I’m still alive, so there must be some truth to that, but sometimes I wonder if he thinks I’m super woman or something.
The only good that could come from this is that I might get some time to clear my head, do some extensive research, and figure out the mess that is my life. I am determined to use these few days to find Drew Foster. I need closure on that part of my life once and for all.
Maybe if I can get answers where he is concerned, I can accept my fate...whatever that may be? I’ve searched for him in the past. Everything I find is a dead end. I don’t understand it. It’s like he never even existed, and yet I know he did. I know he was real.
So I’ve decided to hire a professional when I get home after everything is sorted. It will give me a welcome distraction from the fact that I’ve lost three of the most important people in my life. Papa. Just when I was so close to getting home to see him again.
I wish I had been given the opportunity to say goodbye to him, to tell him how much I loved him. Not that there is any doubt in my mind that he knew, but because I want to tell him just one more time. When one of my great aunts passed away, Mom told me that no matter what I’d do on this earth I’d never feel like it had been enough. She said when the people you love leave you, it will feel like you could have always done more. It’s as if I can hear her speaking the words like she’s next to me. You can’t over say I love you. I know this is true. Papa told me the same thing.
Ever since that conversation I did what I could to make the time count, but the thing I regret the most is my decision to spend so much time away at school and then joining the military. If I’d not done those two things, I would have had so much more time with him. Maybe I could have even been there to save him.
I bring my legs to my chest, knees bent, and wrap my arms around them. I bury my head into skin as the familiar emotions of loss and grief consume me. I’m well versed in grief, and even though my mind knows from a text book that the anger and bargaining is a normal stage of grieving, it’s still hard for me to accept that he’s gone, that my time with him is over. I feel robbed. The funny thing is that I think even if I had been able to have five hundred years with him, I would still feel the same way.
I hurry through the back door, freezing in my tracks the moment I see him sitting on the couch facing the door. He jumps up, but then hesitates. Probably after he saw the look on my face. I blink. Is this real, or is this my mind playing tricks on me? Am I really here, or have I just fallen asleep and now I’m dreaming on the plane? I drill him, “What are you doing here?”
He swallows. “I came back for you.”
My eyes bulge. “For me?” I ask incredulously.
He nods. “Thank God you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you?” he asks.
Those eyes. Those beautiful chocolate eyes. All of these years later, it’s like I can see my own soul looking into them. There is no mistaking them. I take a deep breath realizing that I could never forget them. It makes me angry. So angry, unless he’s just a figment of my imagination. “You’re really here?” I ask as I watch him start to make his way closer to me, smiling that dazzling smile that has never changed. He looks exactly like he did before, he’s just finally grown into a man. “It was you, wasn’t it...in Afghanistan?”
He nods his head. “Yeah, it was me.”
I put my hand up in protest because this is all too much. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He questions me.
“Don’t do this right now.” I put my bag down. “I can’t do this with you right now.” I’m trying to be strong, but it’s so hard. I don’t want my chin to quiver. I don’t want my eyes to pool with tears, but my body is betraying me.
He doesn’t move, he’s frozen in place in my living room. I can’t even begin to count the number of times I’ve prayed for this scenario. Here he is, in my house, but today of all days? He hangs his head a little low and gives me a look that nearly makes me melt. “Please let me explain,” he pleads.
I throw my hands up in frustration. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Start here. How come no one knew who you were? You were with T737. You were there when we got hit, yet when I woke up no one knew a Drew Foster?”
He closes his eyes for a moment, and I see his fists clench by his sides. When he opens them, the look on his face is intense. It’s a look that I’ve never seen before. He’s different. He should be, though. I barely knew him all those years ago. I can’t possibly know him now. He calmly speaks, “That’s because my name is Stone Wilder.”
Just when I didn’t think my life could get any worse, he tells me I didn’t even know his name! My first love, all of this Acute Stress Disorder and PTSD crap is just what I thought it was. He was real, and I did see him. I lost my job for nothing, have spent weeks in rehab for a condition I was adamant I didn’t have. He’s made me question my own sanity, my ability to do my job. I can feel my face reddening; my blood starting to boil as it gushes through my veins. I narrow my eyes. “Your name is what?”
“Stone Wilder is my legal name,” he nods.
“Get out,” I shout as I point to the door. He stares me down. I think I know his looks, but in this moment it occurs to me that I know nothing, and I mean zero about this stranger standing in my living room. “I. Said. Get. Out.”
His eyes lids droop, and I can see the disappointment. For a moment I feel terrible, but I can’t. How dare he do this to me right now? He knows how much Papa meant to me. How
could he come back now and spring this information on me now of all times?
He runs his hands through his hair. “Okay.” When he gets to my side to leave, he hesitates before he leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry for your loss, but you aren’t getting rid of me that easily or quickly this time.”
“I didn’t get rid of you either of the two times before. You seem to be really great at skipping out, Stone,” I growl. My body is telling me one thing, and my mind is telling me another. It would be so easy to fall into his arms. He helped me through the most difficult time in my life, and it’d be easy to think he could support me through the second most difficult. Yeah, if only he had not lied to me and been my third and fourth most difficult losses.
He purses his lips together. I can tell that my words hurt him. “Later,” he says as he walks the few extra steps to the door, and out of my house...out of my life once again.
After I get myself settled I decide I need to take a walk, so I head to the creek. “Memaw,” I call as I head towards the back of the house, towards their room. I hear movement. “You don’t have to get up. I just wanted to tell you I am headed for a walk.”
She meets me in the doorway. Her eyes are red. She’s not wearing her big round glasses. She’s holding one of his shirts. It breaks my heart. My parents were in love. I was fortunate to get to grow up around people who were happy with each other. Yet even their love seems small compared to the love of my grandparents. Both, my mom’s and dad’s parents, have been married for over 60 years. I recognize how rare that is. I hope one day I have that. I can’t imagine what it’s like for my grandmother to have lost the love of her life after so many years. She whispers, “I need to pick out an outfit for him.”
I take the shirt from her as I pull her into an embrace. “I’ll do it.”