Back to the Emergency Room Again

Yesterday, the MRSA infection seemed like it was going away.  This morning I woke up with my arm swollen so much I had no wrinkles--not easy at 57 years old.  The cut they made Thursday night to drain the would had opened and blood and pus were coming out.  The MRSA is back.  I called my doctor and they said to go back to the emergency room.  I got a different antibiotic which is already giving me a weird taste in my mouth.  They said to soak my arm in hot water.

At the hospital Jacari was hoping they would do something he could watch, like cutting and squeezing pus out of my arm.  Nigel was happy when they did not do anything visual.

Looks like I am going to be a lab rat for infectious bacteria.  

My First Blister!!!!

Today I got a half-dollar-sized blister on my right heel.  I ran three miles in combat boots--clearly not a good plan.  But when I took off my boot I realized it was the first foot blister I have had since rejoining the Army.

I felt the blister coming on at the end of the first mile, but my son Jacari was running with me and this would be the first time he ran more than a mile without stopping.  He usually sprints, stops and sprints again.  He's a boy.

So we ran up a hill at the beginning of the second mile and my foot felt a little better, but down the other side it was worse.  But Jacari was still running and I did not want to be the reason he stopped.  So I kept on running.  Jacari made the whole three miles.  So it was worth a blister.

It shouldn't be too bad since it is on the back of my heel, not the bottom.  I rode the bike thirteen miles after I got the blister and that's no problem at all.  Nigel rode with us.  He was encouraging us and not at all interested in a three-mile run.

Nigel and Jacari

Back to the Emergency Room for an Infection

Yesterday a bug bie on my arm swelled from an inch to four inches long in one day.  I made a doctor's appointment for Saturday, but the last time I waited with a fast-swelling infection, I had to get about a square-inch of skin cut out.  So at 11pm I went to the emergency room.

When I got there, one of the nurses walked up and asked me how I was doing.  She had taken care of me in May of 2007, the last time I was in the ER at Lancaster General Hospital.  I broke ten bones and spent 9 days in LGH on that visit.  This visit was over and I was on the way to the pharmacy by 1:15 am.  They did cut the skin and drain some of the swelling, but nothing like last time.  I'm glad I went early.  The MRSA bacteria work fast.

Now I am climbing onto my soap box.  I joined the Air Force in 1972 when I was 18.  After eight months of training I went to my first permanent base, Hill AF Base in Ogden, Utah.  At hill as an airman I got a two-man room.  Our chow hall served five meals a day.  The food was great.  We had almost every weekend off, extra duty maybe once a quarter.  And everybody bitched.

Four years later I was in the Army.  The food was bad and there was not that much when we were out in the field.  We trained on weekends.  We slept on the ground.  The soldiers I served with bitched much less than the Air Force guys.

I learned then one of the weird rules of human life:  the better a person has it, the more that person will bitch.  Who is most like to sue their doctor--the higher the family income, the more likely they are to sue.  Who sends their food back at restaurants, bitches about coffee temperature at Starbucks, people who have a great life.

So now I come home to people bitching about the government, the economy, health care, Hollywood, TV, and who knows what else.  People in America bitch about everything and live better than kings did two hundred years ago.  Clean water from the tap, medicines that really cure disease, safe food, surgery with anesthesia (versus none), vaccines against disease, effective dental care, antibiotics, and lifesaving surgery of many kinds--I have had several myself.

We have all this and an epidemic of bitching.  And those who cannot bitch enough themselves listen to professional whiners bitch for three hours at a time on the radio.

I am so thankful to be alive at time when I can break my neck and nine other bones and join the Army three months later.  A decade early I would have spent a year in a halo cast.  A few decades ago I may have been paraplegic.  I ate better in Iraq than 90% of the people in the world.  I flushed better water than a third of the world drinks.

This really is a great country.  I wish the whiners could see it.

Lauren's Last Regular Season Game

Championships start next Wednesday.  Lauren's finger is healed up.  She played the full game plus two OT periods.

 

October Drill M240B Range Photos--Chinook Door Gun

Safety Check

Long Shot to small targets

10-round bursts

Beautiful weapon

Changing firing mechanism

Switching to prone firing position

Article in USO magazine "On Patrol"

The following article was published this spring in "On Patrol" the USO magazine.  I never saw it and the link is broken on the web site.  There is a pdf copy on line, but it is not easy to get to.  I also posted on a soldier stories Army web site.

------

On a cold, wet morning in early May of 2008, I climbed into the back of a canvas-covered 2 ½ ton M35A2 “Deuce and a Half” truck for the bumpy ten-mile ride to Urban Combat training.  I was carrying an M16 rifle.  We were beginning combat training to get ready for deployment to Iraq in January of 2009.  I re-enlisted in 2007 after leaving the Army in 1984.  I had been a civilian for 23 years and now I was back.  Up to this point my service had been one weekend a month.  But climbing into that out-moded truck that would soon be retired even from National Guard use, I had a moment of doubt whether I really belonged with these guys less than half my age and a moment of déjà vu.

Thirty-six years ago, in February of 1972, I was 18 years old in basic training.  I climbed into the back of a Deuce and a Half truck.  They big three-axle trucks were new to the military then, as was the M16 rifle I carried at the time.  We all knew we could end up in Viet Nam, although the war was ending.  Riding out to the range made the war more real. 

And 36 years later, bouncing and lurching on rutted roads toward the range I wondered if I was really ready for deployment to Iraq.  I never left the United States during the Viet Nam War, but in one of those ironies that make the best war stories so good, I was the only one of the five guys I enlisted with to come home in bandages.  They served in Viet Nam and came home just fine.  I was on a live-fire missile test crew in the desert in Utah.  On November 9, 1973, some detonators went off and I was blinded in the explosion.  I had my sight back in a month after six operations to remove wire and small fragments from my eyes.  I retained as a tank crewman after that and served another nine years, mostly as a tank commander on active duty and in the reserves.

In 1984 I left the Army because I wanted to work as a writer and, although the reserves is billed as one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer, the leaders spend a lot more time than that.  So I left the Army.

When America was attacked in 2001, I thought about re-enlisting, but I was too old.  At that time the maximum enlistment age was thirty-five.  Eleven years prior service meant I could enlist until age 46, but I was 48 when the terrorists attacked.  In addition, the baby we adopted the year before was not quite two years old. 

Five years later, in 2006, congress raised the maximum enlistment age to 42 for the Army.  It took a few months for me to find a recruiter willing to go through the waivers and hassles necessary to get a guy my age back in the Army, but Sergeant 1^st Class Kevin Askew was sure he could get me back in. 

The déjà vu comes and goes.  In a very digital world, the Army still runs on dog-eared file folders of papers and uses more clerks to shuffle paper in a 2000-soldier brigade than a civilian company with ten times that many employees.  Most of the men I served with in the 70s (there were no women in combat units back then) were from inner city or rural backgrounds.  Most of the men and women who enlist now are the same.  They want a job, they want the benefits for their young families, they do not have the money for higher education and want to go to college or technical school.

Inside the fences that surround most bases, the Army is very much the same as the 1970s.  But the first time stopped on the way home from a weekend drill to get coffee at Starbucks, I knew perception of the Army had changed completely.  In the 70s we did not wear uniforms off base if we could avoid it.  Now people thank me for my service almost anyplace I go.  I came home from Iraq through Fort Dix, New Jersey.  I took an Amtrak train home to Lancaster.  Several people I never met thanked me for my service between Trenton, New Jersey, and home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  A few of the guys I served with in Iraq had enlisted back in the 1970s.  They remembered very well what it was like to be a soldier back then.  Sometimes when a stranger thanks me for my service, I wish some of the men I served with in the 1970s could spend a day in the uniform now and get some of the gratitude that they missed back then.

Death and Motivation

In an odd coincidence, I watched episode 2 of "Band of Brothers" the HBO series with my two sons and talked with my daughter about her recent visit to a charter school in Harlem.  My boys are (almost) 11 and (just) 12.  Even though they don't have video games in our house, they play them with their friends.  In video games you die regularly and come back to life.  In the "Band of Brothers" they make painfully clear death has no re-dos.

The boys really like the series.  We will watch the whole thing together over the next two weeks.

On the same evening, I spoke to my daughter Lisa, a sophomore at the U. of Richmond about her Fall Break trip to NYC to see schools in Harlem.  One of these amazing schools she visited was located in the worst area of Harlem.  The school starts at 730 in the morning and goes to 430 in the afternoon, but the kids stay later if they need to finish their work.  They go six days per week, 11 months of the year.  More than 90% of the kids they graduate go to college.

The schedule is rigorous.  The work is hard.  So what is the biggest motivational problem for the school?

The student death toll.

Of the 1200 kids in that school, two to five die every month.  That's right, 2 to 5.  By the end of the year, that adds up to about 5% of the student body.

More than a million soldiers have served in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  To date, about 6,000 soldiers have lost their lives in these wars or 0.6% of all soldiers.  If these wars had the same death rate as this relatively small school in Harlem, the death toll in these wars would already be worse than Viet Nam.

The unit I served with brought everyone home from Iraq--more than 2000 soldiers flying thousands of missions in helicopters.

Lisa said the teachers she met in these schools are amazing.  That is very easy to believe.  For all the problems with education, the best teachers really are miracle workers.