Page 35 - Total War on PTSD

She then led me down the center of an adjacent ward with soldiers lying in elevated beds along both sides of the aisle. Some were asleep. Most were in some form of traction. Nurses in blue scrubs were attending to others. There was a heavy curtain at the far end of the corridor separating us from the section on the other side — the Special Care Unit.
As we walked toward the curtain, I began to remember the words of that same nurse on my first visit to the Role III six-months earlier as she was explaining the level of injuries that came into the hospital. "Single limb amputations are common," she had said. "There are a lot of double amputees. Some Soldiers don't make it. Triple amputees rarely survive.”
It was then that I realized what the term 'expectant' meant — it was a triage term for a patient who wasn't expected to live.
As we neared the wall of fabric, tears started running down my cheeks. About fifteen feet from the curtain, my legs stopped moving, and I just stood there staring ahead into space — the curtain was a blur. The nurse stepped closer and cupped her right hand around the bicep of my left arm.
I don't know how long we stood there, probably just a few seconds, but it seemed like minutes. Without taking my eyes off of that watery curtain, I said, "Ma'am, I can't do it. I'm sorry; I just can't do it." She pulled me closer to her, turned me around, and led me back the way we had come. Leaning in closer, and in a soft muted voice, she said, "It's ok Master Chief, it's ok. I understand. It's all right."
But it wasn't all right at all!
It wasn't that I had seen all that many injuries or deaths — goodness knows other units had suffered far worse causalities — but at that moment, one more was one more too many.
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