Casualty of War

Part One: Casualty of War

     They said it was a game. I had never played it before.

      “You take the golf ball and throw it on the ground. If it hits the other person, they’re out.” Lizzie’s sister said it so matter-of-factly. She was older. She was the expert. With trepidation, I gingerly accept the golf ball. I was “it” first. No basic training, not even a “boot,” catapulted into a boondoggle operation. Game on; we scatter like rats, scampering for our lives, when the cook enters the kitchen. My operative: get to base-camp (the front porch) and through the beaten zone (the rest of the yard) without encountering a bouncing Betty (said golf ball) or the Viet-Cong (Lizzie’s sister). I sprint towards the back of the house to hide beyond the berm. Emerging cautiously from the boonies, I scale the perimeter towards the left. No good, possible spider holes detected. I adjust my sights and focus my recon to the right of the hooch. Bingo, I was scott-free, feeling like a skilled boonierat.

     Enter armed enemy sapper. Red Alert. Rock and Roll, she fires a shaped charge, no hesitation. I watch in slow motion, my thoughts the dead march. Analyzing my potential moves, one-by-one, I turn each one down. I was trapped. Her ammunition bounces off the drive-way hitting me square in the mouth. Man down. Blood everywhere, I’m screaming somewhere inside my head and for real. I’m not sure which of the two was louder.

     When Lizzie’s father comes storming out of the house, he yanks me inside commencing the bomb damage assessment. I can feel it. They are gone. A million dollar wound. A check in the mirror confirms the worst…my two front teeth: FUBAR. I was a casualty of war.

 

Part Two: Porcelain Shrapnel

     Slow motion moments. Eyes fluttering, nauseous, groggy, foggy. Just keep them closed. Where am I? That smell, I recognize it. It’s antiseptic, sterile with an indefinable mixture of cleaning fluids, anesthesia, rubbing alcohol and metal? Sit up? No, lay chilly. Just keep them closed. Damn, where am I? Cotton mouthed. Thirsty. Lost in the past, my thoughts pierce my stupefied state shrieking silently, “Are they still there? Chipped? Cracked?” Running my tongue along the marred porcelain, I bolt upright, roaring, “Get my fucking husband!” The nurses, dressed in their standard-issue clinic fatigues, shoot each other a knowing look of alarm. They’d known this was coming. Their fugazi patient awake, kicking and screaming, “Get my fucking husband! Now!”

     “Uh Ma’am, please. Please stay calm. We, um, we had a little problem with your procedure,” the doe eyed physician’s assistant putters. She’s a predictable hooch-girl with hair cut into a too-neat bob. My personal space alarm goes off…ehn, ehn, ehn. She was the first one I wanted to put in a Glad-bag, just because she was there. Restraining my inner hell-fury, I fire my best die-bitch-die look instead.

     “I know. I knew you were going to freak out,” in walks my husband, the moment’s knight-in-shining armor. “The anesthesiologist came out. An hour ago. He told me everything. I’ve been calling all over town. I found a guy who can fix it. I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’ll be ok,” Cookie spews, a torrential rain, breathless. “So, while he was taking out your trach tube,” he continues the after-action report, breathing a little more regularly. “You came out of unconsciousness quicker than expected. You bit down on the tube, hard, nearly taking off his fingers. They went flying into the air. You almost took-out the head nurse. You sure-as-shit freaked out the anesthesiologist; he may require therapy.”

     Huh? I freaked out the Bac-si? He’s going to require therapy? I festered. Kill, kill, kill! I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the anesthesiologist, the orchestrator of my current cluster fuck. The reason I was lit-up. Oh I was going to give it to him. Porcelain shrapnel was only the beginning of my wrath. Fester. Fester. Who was I? What had I become? Fester, fester, fester. Why couldn’t I think clearly? My thoughts were rumbled, my mind racing. I’d known something was going to happen.

     “Oh just sign, honey,” the intake nurse had crooned just four hours earlier. “We never had anyone have any problems with that. That’s just a legal formality, you know?” Sign I did. How could I resist? She afflicted me with intonation so silky, so smooth. Wooed me with her syrupy-sweet disposition; quelled my rightful concerns over the contents of the medical liability waiver and release forms. If I had a clacker or some foo gas right now I would have buckled the co-cong, but I felt like I was going to hurl.

     And let’s face it; I really wanted the damn things anyway. Having been inflated for nine months and sucked dry for thirteen, I was overdue. Tired of them flapping around like two deflated water balloons, compulsion drove me. I needed an upgrade. Now, for the second time in my life, I was a casualty of war.

     My scars are well hidden. I have two of them, one on each side. They are not very large. You would never know they were there, unless you knew me intimately. Even then, not unless I told you. Of course, you would wonder. It’s obvious they must be somewhere. But you wouldn’t ask me unless we shared a couple shots of tequila and swapped war stories. Some don’t like them. Some think they are expertly crafted. It’s a matter of opinion. Running my fingers across my battle wounds evokes vivid wartime memories. I have a feeling they won’t’ be my last.