Judy Hamilton
December 9th, 2010, 09:29 AM
This is an essay to introduce you to the heart of a son who was adamant that his mom and Dad would enjoy Christmas the year is Christmas 1968.
“OK” Defined
There are so many of you, today there seems no end to the flow of combat casualties we received. Men, America’s finest teenagers, Uncle Sam list you as men; your mom’s call you “my boy.”
We work as well oiled teams, furtively against the clock, the clock ticking off the minutes, the seconds of your lives. You are not a mass causality, a number to this nurse. Each one of you is special. I close my eyes and see clearly where your bed is on the ward. Your left leg is mutilated. Despite aggressive measures to prevent the loss of your leg, I know you will lose it. I futilely try to brace you to face this life altering fact. Life goes on, I hear myself telling you, and “in the States there is an Army hospital in Colorado where you can learn to ski with one leg. Do you ski soldier?” No sooner are the words out of my mouth when I swallow hard and hear my self talk say a silent prayer to the faux pas god. Ignoring my impulsive comment, you ask “Lt. will you write a letter to my folks?” Wiping sweat from my face, I look into your brown trusting eyes, put finishing touches on your dressing and search for a pad, any clean scrap of paper will have to do. I sit down and say, “Ok, I am ready, how do you want the letter to read?”
“Dear Mom and Dad
I am out of action for awhile but I am gonna be OK “
Our eyes connect as I ask, “Do you want to tell them about your injuries?” I carefully avoid saying the word leg. My question hangs in the sultry air over the bed. In a pensive moment with a wrinkled forehead you consider your options. “Nah!” you answer with an indifference contrasting the gravity of our conversation. I do not want to spoil their Christmas. Just tell them I will write when I can and don’t worry about me that I will be OK. And tell them I love them and Merry Christmas. What day is it anyway; do you think my letter will reach them before Christmas?”
I do not remember your name, it is you, soldier, I cannot forget. I am here when your leg is a part of you, before the life altering surgery that renders you an amputee. I am here when you wake up from surgery. Hot tears slip down your face. Trying to make you comfortable I wipe your tears, squeeze your hand and repeat the words of a letter to your folks.
Soldier you are going to be OK.
This is a prayer. Are you listening God?
Penned by Judy Crausbay ANC
91st Evac Hospital Phu Hiep, RSVN
“OK” Defined
There are so many of you, today there seems no end to the flow of combat casualties we received. Men, America’s finest teenagers, Uncle Sam list you as men; your mom’s call you “my boy.”
We work as well oiled teams, furtively against the clock, the clock ticking off the minutes, the seconds of your lives. You are not a mass causality, a number to this nurse. Each one of you is special. I close my eyes and see clearly where your bed is on the ward. Your left leg is mutilated. Despite aggressive measures to prevent the loss of your leg, I know you will lose it. I futilely try to brace you to face this life altering fact. Life goes on, I hear myself telling you, and “in the States there is an Army hospital in Colorado where you can learn to ski with one leg. Do you ski soldier?” No sooner are the words out of my mouth when I swallow hard and hear my self talk say a silent prayer to the faux pas god. Ignoring my impulsive comment, you ask “Lt. will you write a letter to my folks?” Wiping sweat from my face, I look into your brown trusting eyes, put finishing touches on your dressing and search for a pad, any clean scrap of paper will have to do. I sit down and say, “Ok, I am ready, how do you want the letter to read?”
“Dear Mom and Dad
I am out of action for awhile but I am gonna be OK “
Our eyes connect as I ask, “Do you want to tell them about your injuries?” I carefully avoid saying the word leg. My question hangs in the sultry air over the bed. In a pensive moment with a wrinkled forehead you consider your options. “Nah!” you answer with an indifference contrasting the gravity of our conversation. I do not want to spoil their Christmas. Just tell them I will write when I can and don’t worry about me that I will be OK. And tell them I love them and Merry Christmas. What day is it anyway; do you think my letter will reach them before Christmas?”
I do not remember your name, it is you, soldier, I cannot forget. I am here when your leg is a part of you, before the life altering surgery that renders you an amputee. I am here when you wake up from surgery. Hot tears slip down your face. Trying to make you comfortable I wipe your tears, squeeze your hand and repeat the words of a letter to your folks.
Soldier you are going to be OK.
This is a prayer. Are you listening God?
Penned by Judy Crausbay ANC
91st Evac Hospital Phu Hiep, RSVN