Page 33 - Total War on PTSD

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.
We walked all the way to the other end of the ward with her holding my arm and guiding my steps as I silently sobbed — a grown man crying unashamedly. I couldn't help it. As we stepped out into the hall, she released my arm and handed me a Kleenex. I dried my eyes; she dried hers too. Then she led me to the room where the General and his entourage were.
I stood at the back of the gaggle of officers; they didn't even notice that I was there. It was as if I was on the other side of a two-way mirror looking on but not part of the scene.
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