I now officially belong in Afghanistan because I have finally experienced a key rite of passage. Yesterday I was admitted to the hospital with the Kabul Crud...but believe me, it's far less dramatic and interesting than it sounds.
My body woke itself up at 6am ejecting terrible gunk from all orifices, which wouldn't be a big deal if the bathroom was not located over the river and through the woods. Now granted that river and those woods are only about 100 meters from my doorstep (okay, 50 paces, because I just counted, and no, I never exaggerate). But in an emergency situation, that bathroom may as well be located on the moon. Yet another chance for the Army to serve me a slice of humble pie.
I spent most of yesterday trying to will myself out of the room and to the Troop Medical Clinic (TMC). The guys from my team delivered Gatorade and crackers to my door. And my very sweet husband kept calling to encourage me to get my rump out of bed. I finally managed to get myself to the TMC at about 5:30pm after much nudging from everyone who knows me. Of course sick call (the authorized time to admit to your illness) was over at 5pm, so the people at the TMC were rather puzzled as to why I had shown up, but nevermind them. I'm persistent. They helped me. I didn't really give them a choice.
Dehydration was the name of the game yesterday, and that's really no shocker considering what I'd been up to this past week (gym twice a day, climbing a mountain in the middle of the day in full gear, and several other stupid things, followed by about 6 hours of disgusting sickness). My resting heart rate was up about 40 beats per minute, but after three IV bags, some anti-nausea medication and some heavy duty pain reliever I was almost myself. Yes, now I am fine (but that's mostly because I slept 16 hours last night!)
But the point of this isn't to tell you about being sick, because like I said, it's a rite of passage, and I have now passed. Almost everyone who comes here goes through what I went through yesterday. The point is to demonstrate the bonds people quickly form in the warzone. The guys with whom I work have known me for about 2 weeks, but they were the first ones to show up at my door to make sure I was okay. They showed up at the clinic, too, with a lollipop, to make sure I wasn't lying when I told them I was fine. My interpreter sent me a text message this morning at 6:30am that said "Good morning ma'am, what is wrong with you? I need to hear your voice. I am sad." (Last night I sent her a note to tell her I would not be at work today and that she could stay home). The guys checked on me again today at about 12:30pm when they hadn't heard from me all day.
You don't ever need to worry about me out here. I'm in good hands. One of the things I love most about deploying is that in the absence of a traditional family, we all become each other's families. And never is that more apparent than in a time of need. I'm glad that "time of need" for me was only due to an evil stomach bug and not something more serious. But even after that stupid bug, I now have more confidence than ever that should I ever really need help here, there are plenty of people who would be there for me in an instant. And I wouldn't even need to ask.
The sign at the TMC check-in counter said "Soldiers don't fight because they hate what is in front of them, they fight because they love what is behind them."
And that is why I serve. Because I love what is behind me...and more specifically who is behind me.
No comments:
Post a Comment