So were sitting here in the middle of nowhere Southern Afghanistan, around the Fall of 2010, with one of our few hypochondriacs. The other medics and I are checking him over with extreme scrutiny. Already worried about the limiting of our supplies in the event of a serious mass trauma incident if we come under attack and the biggest moral dilemma were having is exactly how much I.V. fluid we want to waste on him before we just send him on his way. His vitals are coming up negative for anything terribly suspicious. Blood pressure and heart rate are reasonably normal. Temperature is just slightly elevated but nothing to worry about. All three of us medics are in 99% agreement that hes just gagging himself every few minutes because hes scared of the shit storm of RPGs and gunfire that are possible to come in on us at virtually any moment. Paranoia of an actual present threat is as thick as a low hanging fog. So we didnt really blame him. Just assumed he was a coward and considered the options of what it was going to take to get him just to stand up and head back to his platoon, suck it up, and drive on. The threat of some foreign virus being very possible due to the fact we are in fact in a foreign land doesnt dawn on us because it doesnt seem likely with his current temperature. We were trained to only consider a virus if the temperature is skyrocketing. Viruses, however, have their own unique personalities. So we deal with him for a couple days, practically just render him comatose with an anti-emetic (anti nausea/throw up) and he stabilizes within 72 hours. Fluids were given the whole time but were pretty sure he lost a little weight with all the throwing up so when he gets back in the mix its with orders to stuff his face to fatten up a bit. He was already kind of small to begin with. Less than a week later, Im still going strong with my personal physical regiment. One focused thought in my mind is making it through this tour with enough body weight and endurance training under my belt to make it through selection and earn a slot as a Special Forces Medic. 18 Delta is practically in the bag. I was running my math on my caloric intake and protein intake with my physical training practices and I was way ahead of schedule with everything. Just one day at a time. Keep going, I have this. Cant give a damn about this stupid shit hole desert that Im in with this stupid war going on around me. I have a goal and in high pressure situations, realistic goals are what keep you sane. So Im down for the count after whatever events of the days tasks completed included. Tomorrows tasks already considered and physical regiment for the day done. This whole place stinks like third world ass but its a stink that Ive mostly grown accustomed to, part of it even coming from myself. Plumbing is a luxury that isnt fully afforded to us at this point and water is rationed. Everyone stinks. Not even racked out for half an hour and the whole dark room, the inside of a mass living tent with a ceiling hanging so low you can reach up and touch, starts violently spinning around me. I sit up quick, knowing Im gonna puke and puke a lot. I dont know why but its coming. I cant even make it outside the tent before Im projectile vomiting in the nearest trash can and whatever this is it is hitting me so bad that I just fall to the ground immediately afterward. The next few hours are a delusional haze of confusion and nausea. The next thing I know I see Bustos with a needle and Im trying to get up out of my cot but Im too weak and I mumble something dumb like, Nah, man. I got this. Dont waste that on me. Bustos responds calmly while measuring out a syringe of phenergan, Its okay, buddy. Youre just gonna sleep through this one. Sleep being a luxury, especially during the last few stomach wrenching hours or so, I dont bother fighting. A few days later Im right as rain. Feeling like I lost a bit of myself but happy for being through it. The mystery virus hits a handful of soldiers in total and then disappears as quickly as it had showed up. I dropped a little over ten pounds in just those few terrible days. The rate my metabolism works at, the amount of work I had already put in, its incredibly depressing. Just the beginning of the tour, too. So much more to look forward to in this third world sand box...
Posted on: Thu, 10 Apr 2014 03:30:16 +0000
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