Dandy in Afghanistan

Hello Gang, 

 What the heck is “Molasses Express”?  It’s a phrase I heard today during a trauma involving a two year little boy who had fragments to his head from an improvised explosive device (IED).  It’s amazing when the little ones come through how the stress level triples among the surgeons, nurses, and techs.  My logic is that most of our patients raised they right hand and swore in to protect and defend our country or their own country, but the children did not.  They are often caught in the cross fire and are consequently injured.  One minute they are playing outside and the next thing they’re hit with fragments of an IED.  There is absolutely nothing common or normal about that, but yet it happens and they roll through our trauma bay doors on litters with tubes down their throats, bellies open, legs broken, or whatever else may happen to them.  We work feverishly and swiftly to get the child the best care possible because we know they still have an unfinished life to live. 

 So what did the trauma surgeon mean when he said “Molasses Express”?  He meant pick up the pace so we can get this baby to the CT scanner and to the operating room.  I asked the flight surgeon if seeing the four year old little girl with an infected right arm and fingers dangling by deadened tissue “does she make you miss your kids?”  He says “it makes feel lucky that they are safe at home with my wife”.  And then I think of Laney and Jake and wish I could hug their little bodies and plant a big, wet, smacker on their foreheads.

 Mommy misses you!

 Dandy 124.3 miles to go Aaron

Happy Thursday Gang,

A couple nights ago the Egyptian hospital on base brought in a Local National who had fallen from a date tree. This was at seven in the evening and the fall had occur ed at eight o’clock that morning. He was an older, thin, frail looking man probably in his sixties with a full salt and peppered beard and longer white hair.

He was in poor shape with broken ribs and air in his left lung (pneumo thorax). When we were working on him he started spitting dates out of his mouth and almost hit the ER doctor in the face and hit one of the ER techs in the arm. We rolled him on his side and one of the surgeon’s said “will someone do a blind finger sweep and clear his airway?” The ER doctor at the patient’s head said “no, don’t do that, he’s got sharp little pointy teeth.”

They ER doctor put a chest tube in him and we got him stabilized enough to bring him to the CT scanner. He was squirmy and I had to hold his left hand down from getting into the sterile field where they were doing the chest tube. It was just the funniest thing that he had all of this dates in his mouth and he started spitting them. I don’t think he was trying to be mean and intentionally spit on the doctor.

Anyways, I thought you’d enjoy that little story about the date muncher.

Dandy 147.3 miles to go- can you believe I’m half way to 300 miles Aaron

Hi Gang,

This week’s topic is about picking up the pieces after a comrade or loved one is injured or worse killed in action. Every patient we’ve seen come through the ER was part of a team of some sort. Much of the time the team was put together well before they arrived here. They trained together preparing for their year long tours and once they arrived here they forged a brotherhood that goes deeper than most. They ate, slept, played, trained, and fought together.

Now imagine your typical Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) mission where there is usually at least four to five soldiers assigned. If the MRAP is struck by an Improvised Explosive Device and one is killed and two are severely injured and the remaining two are mainly injured- that team just ended.

Think about the two that were left behind. One of their buddies is dead and the other two are fighting for their lives in the operating room and eventually headed back to the U.S. where they may face a much different life. Now they have to mesh with a new team and feel the void of their missing teammates, not to mention grieve the teammate that was killed. They may place blame or guilt on themselves for the situation and question if they could have done something different in the situation to change the outcome.

Then think about the two severely injured guys. One minute they’re riding along in the MRAP and the next minute they’re coming to in the recovery room at the FOB being told that they lost both of their legs. Then after they are stabilized they’re flown on a helicopter to the Bagram ER where they undergo more surgeries and then eventually flown out to Germany. Once they arrive in Germany they are evaluated again and then flown back to the states for more rehabilitative care. It must be a lonely journey. Many of them ask if they will be able to come back. They don’t want to leave their team. Just a week ago, they were bench pressing 250 pounds with their buddies talking about how many beers they were going to drink on their R and R and how much they were looking forward to seeing their wife and kids. Now, they’re sitting in a wheel chair going to physical therapy twice a day wondering what the heck they are going to do with their lives.

Sometimes they heal and find new ambitions in life to conquer. They get new prosthetic legs and set out on unimaginable feats. They run marathons, down hill ski, get educations, open their own business and never let the unplanned turn in the road get in their way. But other times, it’s just too much. They have too many demons to face and find unhealthy ways to cope. Many of them end up turning to alcohol, drugs, and violence in attempt to heal the psychological scars of war.

Lastly there is the family of the solider killed in action. It’s the phone call that no parent should ever have to hear, to find out that your child paid the ultimate price for our country’s freedom. Or to hear that your husband’s been killed in combat and now you have to raise four small children alone. What does she tell the kids and how does she face each day?

The next time you’re having a crappy day, I encourage you to reflect on the men and women of the Armed Services who gave their lives and pray for their comrades and loved ones left behind picking up the pieces.

Dandy 161.4 miles to go Aaron

Howdy Gang,

Happy September to all of you. Fall is rapidly approaching and y’all are probably looking forward to rolling up your garden hoses and stowing them in the shed and mowing the lawns for the last time this season.

This week’s topic is the Clamshell gym. You’re probably wondering why the heck is it called the Clamshell. Well simply put, it’s a massive tent with exercise equipment it in. and it’s shaped like a clamshell. It has all of your standard exercise equipment; treadmills, bikes, eliptical, stretching mats, weight lifting machines, etc. It’s the place I spend two hours a day for six days a week. It’s like a bee hive with bees buzzing around from bench press to dumb bells to the bike making their contribution to the queen bee. One day I counted 37 men and 4 women there. Yes, women are quite the minority there.

We have the regulars, the drop ins, the staff, and the local national (LN) workers. I’m a regular along with three of my co-workers. There is one regular that is worth mentioning.

“Fe Fi Fo Fum” – A tall, heavier, bald, civilian who always wears colored sweat pants with cargo pockets. I think he may be Turkish and he only ever rides the bike. He pedals so vigorously that I’m afraid he might just pop his hips off one day. By the time he’s done, he climbs off of the bike and walks around shaking his hands and kicking his legs out loosely as he walks around. He looks like he has a corn cob stuck up his bum. He’s quite comical to watch.

I know what your thinking. Now, Dandy that’s just wrong. But I probably have my own description too. I’m the clumsy Air Force girl with the flippy hair that trips on her towel on the treadmill and can only brench press 45 pounds. I know I’m not “Miss Shape 2009″, but that’s exactly why I’m there.

The drop ins are they ones I’ve only seen one or twice here or there. The staff wear jeans and various colored polo shirts with “MWR” embroidered on them. They give the LNs their tasks for the day. There must be at least eight LNs doing various jobs around the gym. Some of them wear their traditional linen man pajamas and others wear jeans with tee shirts, but they all wear top dollar kicks. I’m talking about them wearing Nikes, New Balance, you name it, they’re wearing it. It must be like the first thing they save up to buy. Most of them are short in stature and slim in build with dark black hair and a minimum of at least a mustache for facial hair. They keep pretty busy stocking the triple door water cooler with bottled water, folding towels, taking out the trash, and wiping down the hard surfaces of the gym. Watching them work helps pass some of the 45 minutes I spend on the treadmill.

Good Day!

Dandy 198.1 miles to go Aaron