Returning a Monster

I moved down the supermarket aisle, placing food for the week in my cart. I was moving slowly since the skin on my left side was still stiff and painful from the skin graft procedure. I reached out for the beef pot pie with my good hand, the right one; my left hand was gloved to protect the healing tissues underneath. As I reached up, my hoodie moved back slightly on my head. It was enough to expose the left side of my face to other shoppers.

"Aiiiigh! Mommy! Monster!" The shrill voice of the young girl scared me. Turning my face in her direction, I saw her running away from me in fear. Her mother looked at me, and her face fell before the inevitable revulsion came upon it. Fear, pity, shock, disgust? I saw them all every day. I flipped my hoodie forward and kept my head down as I pushed the cart past the toddler, now clinging to her mother's fat leg.

"Sorry," I mumbled as I moved on. Last week, the Store Manager approached me, telling me I couldn't keep the hood up in the store because it was 'company policy.' As soon as I pulled it down, he turned pale and ran away, saying "never mind" as I pulled it back up. I'm pretty sure he was running to the bathroom to throw up.

I completed my shopping as quickly as I could. I ignored the whispers of the other shoppers and pretended not to notice the subtle ways they avoided me. Carts moved farther away, and some even turned around before they got too close. Walking out the door with my bags, I glanced at the mirror over the door.

Scars. Misshapen nose. Discolored and swollen skin. I looked a mess, and I didn't blame the kid for running away. I looked like a monster in the mirror, and no amount of surgeries will change that.

I had been back home for a month, and nothing had changed. If I didn't have to buy food, I would never have left the apartment I was renting in the cheap area of El Paso. Officially, I was still on terminal leave from the Navy, with my medical discharge paperwork still in progress. Now that I was out of the hospital, the Veteran's Administration would calculate my disability, and I'd do further care in their system.

How tough is it to count to a hundred percent? They could look at me once and write "100%" on the form. It wasn't that simple. Someone had to review that foot-tall stack of papers that constituted my medical record took a while to go through.

I hated my life. There was nothing but pain and rejection, and I didn't know how long I could continue living this way. I closed my eyes and thought of happier times. It was just last year, but it felt like someone else's memories.

October 25 ^th , 2005

Camp Bastion, Iraq

I took a quick shower after my shift was over at the Coalition Hospital. Dressed in clean scrubs, I headed back towards the mess hall and grabbed a late dinner. The cooks were used to weird hours among the medical and security personnel, so food was always available. The lasagna wasn't anything to write home about, but it was better than MRE's (Meals Rejected by Ethiopians), and it was hot. I sat with a few nurses, gossiping about the latest new people arriving, then headed back towards my housing trailer.

My roommate was working a shift. We were both Thoracic Surgeons, and the only two on base. The hospital scheduled us opposite each other, so I had the place to myself. I pulled the scrub top away from my chest, annoyed at my sweat. It didn't matter that the air conditioning was on in my quarter or the mess hall; the three-block walk between them was enough for me to sweat through my scrubs. I sat at the desk across from my bed, aiming a fan at my face, and opened my laptop. Bringing up FaceTime, I soon had my fiance's face onscreen. "Hi, love, how is Iraq?"

I grimaced. "Hot as hell and surprisingly busy. When I got orders, I thought things were settling down over here. It turns out not everyone is happy with the new government. They are voting with car bombs instead. We had five soldiers hit today, one that didn't make it." I closed my eyes for a second, remembering the Marine we couldn't save, trying to focus on how we saved his buddies. "I was in surgery for fourteen hours today."

"Damn... sorry to hear that." My love never knew what to say to me. How do you cheer up someone who couldn't patch up a shredded liver fast enough to keep the guy from bleeding out? They didn't have problems like that in the tech world. On the other hand, I couldn't talk much about killer apps or operating systems. "Still hot over there?"

"Better. It only got to a hundred and ten today. It feels like winter is coming." We talked for another ten minutes, catching up on family news. His family had visited him over the past weekend; wedding plans were in progress now that we had a date. I was more than happy to let his Mom do the planning, I didn't have time, and my parents died when I was in high school. I'd treat it like a groom; show up in the proper clothes, walk down the aisle, and repeat the vows. My future mother-in-law vetoed me getting married in my Navy dress uniform, despite it being white. She was always sending me dress ideas.

I heard the Pedros warming up on the airstrip. The medevac helicopters and their crews were crucial for saving Coalition lives; they went out and got our wounded for us. The Air Force ran them. The pilots were highly trained aviators, while the crewmembers were elite Pararescuemen. These commandos can fight their way to the wounded, then fight to save lives the whole way back using advanced medical skills.

I heard an announcement over the PA system. "Commander Jones to Flight. Commander Jones, to Flight."

No sleep tonight. "Duty calls, my love. I have to go," I said.

"Love you. Go save some lives." The window closed right before I closed my laptop and left again.

I walked into the hospital two minutes later. My Commanding Officer, Colonel Abney, was waiting for me. "You've got two minutes to be out on Pedro Two," he said. "An armored patrol got hit, and their medic is injured badly. There are more casualties than we can transport with the alert Pedros. You'll have to triage and stabilize until we can get more helicopters to you."

I ran to the small dressing room by the airfield entrance, where I stored my gear when on call for flight duty. I yanked off my scrubs before pulling on the lightweight flight suit. I grabbed my body armor, tossing it down over my torso before putting the helmet on. I grabbed the surgical field kit, a bigger version of the kits medics carried. I exited through the side door, pulling my goggles down with one hand while slinging the bag over my shoulder with the other. The Sikorsky HH-60G Pave Hawk rescue helicopters were ready to go. The lead aircraft was taxiing as crewmen on the second helicopter waved for me. I handed one the medical kit, and they pulled me up and into the seat. I hadn't even buckled in before the pilot was moving. In seconds, we were airborne.

I was quickly plugged into the comm system and did a check. "Welcome aboard, Doc. It sounds like we have a big one," the pilot said.

"What have you heard?"

"IED hit a convoy. Two Humvees and a troop transport got caught in the blast. Initial reports are two KIA and nineteen wounded, at least six with amputations. They are doing what they can, but their Medic is one of the KIAs. We don't have much more information. Twenty-two minutes out."

I processed the information; the helicopters could only take four patients each. With no medic, we would have to triage when we got there. "How do you want to proceed, Major?"

These pilots and crews did this for a living, and I wasn't going to cramp their style. "Pedro One will circle the landing area, checking it is safe for us to land. We'll land first, at least a hundred yards away. You and the PJ's," meaning the pararescuemen with me, "will unload and start triage. I'll take off again and cover Pedro One while they land. Send the worst two in the litters and two more that can walk with Pedro One. I'll land for the next group." There was a pause. "Next support is thirty minutes out, so I'll leave you with one of my guys to wait for them.

"Roger that." When we got close to the ambush site, we all donned our latex gloves, and I put my stethoscope around my neck under my flight suit. Pedro One had already made a circuit, their gunners scanning for threats until we got clearance to land.

"Follow me," Parker said. As soon as the wheels were down, he was out of the aircraft, backpack on, M-4 rifle up and ready. The pilot was already increasing power so he could take off as soon as we cleared the rotors. I was on Parker's ass, keeping my head down, when I heard someone yell, "ROCKET!!"

I went to hit the deck, but the missile slammed into the helicopter first. The explosion slammed into me, the shock wave tossing me through the air.

I remember flying. I remember the flames everywhere. I remember pain until it all went dark.

Author's Note: For more information on Air Force Pedros in Iraq, check out

https://www.michaelyon-online.com/pedros.htm

All events and people are fictional, but the missions and tactics are real life. A tip of the hat to those who put themselves in harm's way to save others. You are the real heroes.

Ch 2

I woke up on fire.

I was on my left side, the hard-packed sand covered with burning aviation fuel. I rolled to my knees, the pain from the flames on my face pushing me to act. I got up and stumbled forward, keeping my eyes closed and trying not to breathe. After ten or so steps, someone tackled me to the ground. I screamed in agony as they rolled me over, but the fuel-soaked clothing kept relighting. It took a fire extinguisher to put it out.

I was coughing, and my lungs ached from the smoke and burns. I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn't. I moved my hand towards them, and someone grabbed my sleeve to stop me. "Don't," he said. "Lie back, Doc. We're going to get you out of here."

Hands grabbed my flight suit, carrying me over the ground as the pain overwhelmed me. I tried to calm myself and take inventory. My face was in agony. I had burned in some places, while in others I couldn't feel anything at all. That is even worse, meaning even the nerves are gone. My hands were just as bad. The flight suit was fire resistant, but that didn't stop the heat from the burning fuel. The pain was beyond anything I'd ever felt, but my lungs wouldn't scream. I couldn't even talk.

I could hear the firing around me as the insurgents were pounded from the air and ground. Pedro One was circling, using its miniguns on enemy positions. It didn't take long until the shooting stopped.

As Pedro One landed, I could feel someone covering my face with their body. I heard boots running my way.

"Oh fuck," one man said as he knelt by me. "Hang in there, Doc, we've got you." I could feel burned, oil-soaked clothing cut off, and the morphine kicked in. "Relax, we're going to take care of you. That morphine should take the edge off. Stay with me. We're loading you up." I could hear additional helicopters starting to land; the cavalry had arrived. I forced myself to speak; it was only a whisper, so he had to lean close. I could open my eyes a little now. Things were fuzzy, but I could see blobs. "Pay... Pedros?"

"I'm sorry." He gripped my boot, squeezing gently on one of the few places that weren't injured. I closed my eyes; the morphine dulled the pain from unbelievable to unbearable. I could feel the pararescueman start an IV in my right leg. "We're going to move you now. Just stay with me, Doc; we'll take good care of you." I felt the stretcher being lifted, we were moving towards the noise, and everything went dark again.

I woke up, gasping for breath. I reached for my face, but my hands wouldn't move from my sides. I could feel straps on my forearms holding them. I started to cough and struggle, trying to get the tube out. Opening my eyes, all I could see was light spots. "She's awake," I heard. A female voice came over, and her hand touched my good shoulder. "Don't fight it, Doctor Jones. You've been intubated, and the doctor is coming to remove it. Just relax; you're in good hands here." I laid my head back down. Now that I was calmer, I could feel the tube helping me breathe. My face and hands were on fire in parts, and the pain was enough to make me want to scream. She must have seen my tears, how my body was tensing and figured it out. "We had to wean you off the painkillers so you would awaken. We'll take care of that too."

"Doctor Jones? I'm Doctor Aaronson. I'm going to remove this tube. I want you to cough as I remove it, all right?" I blinked my eyes as he pulled it out, I coughed a few times, and it was free. I took some breaths, feeling my throat and lungs hurting like I'd been running a marathon. A straw touched my lips, and I almost inhaled the cool water. It felt fantastic as it hit my throat. "You're at Landstuhl Air Force Base in Germany. You arrived last night from Iraq. You'll stay here while we get you stabilized for transport to San Antonio."

"How..." I gulped down a little, "Bad?"

"You've got burns over 25% of your body, with the most seriously burned areas being your face and hands. It's going to be a long road, but you're going to pull through this, Doc."

I closed my eyes and started to cry as the information penetrated my brain. That was a significant amount of burning, and I knew exactly what was ahead of me. Part of my residency had included a week in the burn unit. That burnt hair and flesh smell had turned my stomach. My nose smelled the same scent, but it was coming from me. I'd have to start breathing through my mouth.

A nurse put an oxygen tube under my nose, the ends tucked around my ears. "You got lucky. The flight helmet protected your head and ears, and the flight suit gave you a little protection. You inhaled some smoke, and so we're leaving the oxygen line in place. The good news is that we kept you under for the worst of the debridement." Debridement is the process of cutting and scraping away burned skin and tissue, cleaning the wounds of dirt, and setting the stage for healing. It's as painful as it sounds. "We've applied dressings to protect them until we can start grafts on those parts that can't heal."

I motioned my eyes for more water. As the straw came closer, I had a moment to think. Had my fiancé been my emergency contact? "My..." I coughed once, my throat scratchy again. I took another sip. "My..."

"I'm sorry, Julia. Your baby didn't make it."

My eyes got wide in shock as I tried to look at my stomach. Something about my reaction tipped off the doctor. "You didn't know?" I dropped my head back, tears rolling out of my eyes at the news. "I'm sorry. You were about eight weeks along. The trauma caused the miscarriage."

I winced in pain, glancing towards the IV. I didn't want to talk anymore. "Resume the Dilaudid drip and let me know when she's awake again." The nurse increased the flow of the powerful painkiller. "Rest now, Commander."

I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to think. I felt the cold sensation moving up my arm, soon reaching my head. It took the pain away as I fell asleep again.

I wished I had remained unconscious for all the procedures over the next week, but I wasn't so lucky. Daily debridement sessions functioned to clean wounds and remove dead tissue, but poking around wounds was very painful. In places on my body with the worst burns, the nurses had to remove dead skin to the muscles below. Trust me, those nerves still worked. The face and hands contain vast numbers of nerve endings, and it seemed like every one of them was in overdrive. After a treatment, I'd sleep for hours.

Only two things interrupted the routine of that week. On my fourth day awake, the Commanding General and senior hospital staff gathered in my room. He pinned the Purple Heart, awarded for combat-related injuries, on the pillow next to me. Sadly, I wasn't the first female doctor to earn it. There wasn't a front line in this fight and no meaning to the term 'non-combatant.' They also video-conferenced the award ceremony with my unit in Iraq.

They wanted to raise my spirits, but it didn't work. My friends and coworkers voiced their support for my recovery, but their eyes couldn't hide their shock. Fine mesh gauze and antibiotic ointment covered me, and you could barely see my eyes and mouth under it all. It was uncomfortable for everyone, and I quickly ended it, claiming fatigue. As bad as it was, it was better than the third day.

My fiancé, Todd, flew to Germany when he heard I was injured. I only got the story later. Nurse Susan cried as she told me about it. "He showed up on the floor with flowers in his hand. I warned him that it would be difficult to see you, as your injuries were substantial. He said that he loved you and it wouldn't matter. When we arrived at your room, one of the nurses was busy changing the bandages on your face. He looked at you, dropped the flowers, and ran for the bathroom. I could hear him throwing up, but he didn't come out for half an hour," she said. "He handed me this note and left." Susan held it out like it was a dirty diaper. "Do you want me to read it?"

I already knew what it was. Todd and I were a power couple, the genius computer CEO and the hotshot doctor. He had no time for the charity case I had become. "If it's a Dear Jane letter, throw it away. I don't want to hear his excuses."

She opened it up. Her face fell, and she started crying even more. Crumpling it up, she tossed it in the garbage can by the doorway. "Asshole!"

"That part of me didn't get burned, Susan." She choked up laughing, and I tried to laugh with her. It hurt the burns on my face and neck. "I'll be all right. If his love for me was that shallow, I'm better off knowing now." She stayed for a while, but I could only hide my emotional pain. My life, my love, my upcoming wedding? Everything was gone now.

The staff did all they could, and I appreciated it, but I don't think they realized just how empty I was. Most wounded warriors went home to families that would love and support them. My family was dead, and my boyfriend and his family had abandoned me. No one would meet my plane when I arrived stateside.

The medical flight was uncomfortable and uneventful. The Air Force flight nurses did what they could for me. A day later, I arrived in my new home outside of San Antonio. Brooke Army Medical Center at Fort Sam Houston, the preeminent burn treatment center for the military service.

It was a busy place.

I wouldn't wish the year I had on my worst enemy. I underwent thirty-seven separate surgeries, mostly skin grafts to replace skin that was too far gone to heal. I didn't have nearly enough to cover what was needed. My good skin had to be stretched, removed in small sections, then sewn into its new place. You couldn't hide the patchwork of different-shaded skin on my face or the scarring from the surgeries. What caused my former fiancé to throw up now made people recoil in horror. My hands were nearly useless, and I had daily physical therapy to recover strength and dexterity in my fingers. The right recovered faster, but even tying my shoes was a struggle.

Surgical knots weren't even a possibility. There was no way I would ever recover full use of the fingers that allowed me to be a promising young surgeon. I was as close to being a surgeon now as I was to becoming Miss America.

The closer I got to the end of my stay, the more I realized that my life was over. All the pain, all the surgeries I endured, and for what? I looked at my hands, face, chest, and stomach. It was a horror show. No one would ever love me, would ever look at THIS and feel anything but pity.

What was the point anymore?