A trip to the ER

October 03, 2006

The smoke that filled our plane this morning left us with scratchy throats and irritated eyes. One engine had died and things were going downhill fast. Fortunately, we were close to landing.

The crew talked through the emergency with amazing calm. They were in this together.

They wore oxygen masks while the rest of us wore an orange bag on our heads that looked kind of like the old popcorn popper my dad used to make our favorite snack and a massive shower cap that fits securely at your neck.

It pumped oxygen into the bubble surrounding our heads. We laughed at one other through the growing cloud of smoke.

What else were we supposed to do?

The flight surgeon met us outside the plane and told us we'd all be going to the hospital. Regulations.

We piled into two ambulances and were immediately handed oxygen masks for the short drive across base.

The emergency room is a tent, as is much of the hospital.

The group walked in single file, each of us carrying our own oxygen tank and wearing a plastic mask.

I felt kind of silly.

Our chests burned a little, but nothing bad.

As soon as I walked through the plywood door of the emergency room tent, it became blindingly clear that this is not a place for the walking wounded.

The lights are harsh, illuminating red blood smears from recent patients that still marked the cream concrete floor.

This is a place for saving lives. Balad’s military hospital specializes in head trauma, and has a 97 percent survival rate. Not bad.

As we had our blood pressure checked — we all had high blood pressure from the drama — lungs listened to and stuck out our tongues to say "Ahhh," a gurney rolled in.

A soldier lay there as doctors and nurses surrounded him.

He was unconscious, but breathing on his own.

His right hand stuck up in the air, shaking with shock. All but two fingers were gone. One of his feet had similar trauma.

His side was soaked with blood.

I recognized those wounds. You can't be in this country for very long and not see the result of a roadside bomb.

Then, as quickly as they rolled him in, they rolled him out another set of doors to continue fighting for his life.

Maybe it was the look on our faces, maybe she just finally had time. But a nurse wearing latex gloves began wiping up the various blood smears of past patients using a spray bottle and disposable rags.

Fatigue fell across the face of every one of the crew.

It was time to rest, time to shake off the day, time to prepare for whatever happens next.

And no matter what happens next, the soldier on that gurney will forever be with us.

Posted by editor at October 3, 2006 01:37 PM