My Male Nurse
No serious permanent damage.
That’s what I’ve pieced together, fragments here and there, never straight out with exactly how my body will mend. No burns or paralysis; that much is certain. Just broken bones, scars and muscular trauma, damage that’ll heal. An arm and a leg in traction, bound in casts. The upper part of the bed is cranked up thirty degrees, my head propped on a pillow. Under the sheet I’m naked, at least the parts of my body not covered with casts or bandages.
Days on end with no privacy; it’s funny how quickly you lose your old inhibitions when you’re utterly dependant on people you’ve never seen before. Bathing, peeing, bowel movements, personal hygiene of any kind; two weeks now, I haven’t been able to do any of it without someone’s help. All because a roadside bomb had my name on it.
Six months into a one year tour in Iraq, two days after reading a gut-wrenching letter from my fiancé, I drove over a landmine on a dirt road outside of Mosul. They tell me my vehicle jumped five feet into the air. Shrapnel did most of the damage. Flying through the air broke a few bones. A day in a field hospital before they air lifted me to Germany, then the long flight to the states, where I’m at now, not more than five hundred miles from my hometown. Maybe I shouldn’t expect her to come this far to see me, not after what she had to say in the letter. I’m not too doped up to care.
7:00 A.M. I feel rested. The pills they gave me worked; I slept through the night. Woke up hungry, thinking about Patricia, wondering if she’s had a change of heart. I had dreamed she showed up at the hospital in tears. I forgave her. I woke up rested, but empty. At least my parents make the drive to see me on weekends.
Kirkland, my nurse, approaches pushing a cart with various supplies and a breakfast tray, stands looking at me for a moment, then releases a sigh.
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