The Letter

10 Aug 2010

Kandahar, Afghanistan

 Another 30 hour call, another foggy-headed post-call day.  So much happens here in one typical day that it seems like several days strung together.  I look at photos from the previous day and realize we are about to break apart.  I notice people taking more photos of people they will likely never see again, giddy situational posing.  Addresses and e-mails are being jotted down.

Twister on the Boardwalk

Yesterday after rounds we trekked to the Dutch café for morning pancakes.  It was a completely spontaneous decision, the kind of thing you might do as a senior in high school on a warm May day.  In a way we are all about to “graduate,” and we won’t be seeing each other much longer.  It really didn’t matter that the café was closed on Monday mornings, it was the thought that mattered.  We settled for ice coffees while sitting on a bench on the Boardwalk.  Strangely, a medium sized dust twister appeared in the middle of the dusty, dry quad.  The moment was right for me to think to myself, There’s no place like home.

Yesterday after morning report we bade farewell first to our Dutch contingent and then to the latest group of Canadians.  Both had been special in my mind.  This group of Dutch folks had been here during the amazing Dutch run at the World’s Cup and had introduced us to orange wigs – heck, orange everything – as well as Dutch Queen’s day, stroopwafels, and other Dutch customs.  It seems the Role 3 is as much Dutch as it is American or Canadian.  This group of Canucks has likewise been special, causing us to develop a Jones for hockey, which we play every Monday, as well as Tim Horton’s doughnuts.  We’ve also quaffed enough NA beer with them to float a small boat.  They are all "graduating early."

The first group of Americans in our “Roto” will leave this coming Monday.  In college, due to an illness that put me out for 6 months as a sophomore, I graduated in December, the rest of my close friends having graduated the previous May.  I felt like a ghost in the ensuing fall semester.  I am wondering now if I will have that ghost-like sensation as, piece by piece, we are dismantled.

A few hours ago someone handed me a photocopy of a letter sent to us by a soldier.  It’s hard for me to read it as it conjures up a confusing gumbo of emotions – sadness and tears, joy, hope, and several more.  I had cared for this particular soldier as I remembered his name and knew the day of his injury from what he revealed in the letter.  I was on call that day, July 4^th.  This is part of what I read today:

My name is AJ and something I had never thought possible happened yesterday.  I was able to personally thank someone who worked on me at Role-3 in KAF.  A Dutch gentleman who was on vacation in D.C. stopped in my room at Walter Reed and told me he was my anesthesiologist.  It felt incredible to thank him and I hope to do the same thing for the rest of you with this letter.

I think you might remember me, if not by my wounds then by the date I was hit.  I was patrolling the Arghardab River Valley when I was hit by an IED on July 4^th, and came in with two other soldiers.  One was KIA… I received a shrapnel wound to my leg and face. 

From the stories I have been told I can do nothing more than marvel at the shear tenacity and skill you all portrayed in not only saving my life, but saving my leg.  I was informed about the marathon surgery and huge amounts of blood I was given and am so thankful to each and every one of you I can’t put it into words.

The best way I can thank you is to tell you I that I was discharged from Walter Reed today and am now an outpatient.  Everything is going great and I am expected to be able to walk and even run in small amounts…

There are many people who helped save my life but all of you at Role-3 played a major role and I am eternally grateful.  I plan on spending the rest of my life like it’s a second chance and I don’t intend on wasting it.  I have a wife and a 13 month old daughter that I am spending time with right now. 

Thank you for the hard work you are doing.  You are making a difference in people’s lives.  Continue saving lives and return home safely.

Now, I have to say that I feel a little guilty publishing this letter.  But I have a feeling that AJ wouldn’t mind if he knew that a fair number of spouses, parents, and siblings of folks who work at Role 3 follow this blog.  They can be proud knowing they might have played a part in saving this young man’s life.  Thank you AJ, for letting us all know.

When I leave, my biggest regret will be in leaving AJ and his peers behind.