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CHAPTER 2 – INTRODUCTION
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” - Ernest Hemingway
As soon as I arrived in “the sandbox,” otherwise known as Afghanistan, I started journaling.
In fact, it was within the first 24 hours. It may sound weird, but I was very aware of my surroundings. I was very tuned in. And not simply “tuned in” as an American service member serving in a war zone who needs to stay “tuned in” to survive. It was a “tuning in” to everything that being there was soon to unleash and unload on me.
Reflecting on it all, I knew that I was going to Afghanistan for a purpose. I wasn’t sure what exactly that purpose was, but I knew that it would be a life-changing event for me.
It all seemed to start with how I got there—the many delays in our flight, the hang-ups, all these things that played a factor in my eventual arrival and then my first patient. It was like I was meant to be there on that day, to take that first patient at that very moment. There was something profound in that event. It was more than just the patient. It was, in a way, symbolic of what the rest of my tour was going to be.
It was a deep connection in a way that I could only share by capturing it with words. Much in the way that the Ernest Hemingway quote says. I didn’t know how to write. I wasn’t even sure what to write. I just knew that I had to get it out, let it out, and spill it out. I suppose the quote is true, and almost in a literal way…
I had to bleed.
In my initial journal entry, I had an epiphany. Everything clicked into place, and I understood the sequence of events that led me to that particular day. It was the day I encountered a patient whose situation required the specific work I performed. That encounter with that patient at that moment was a catalyst that inspired me to begin journaling.
When I decided to start writing, My intentions were twofold. On one hand, it was more of a catharsis – a therapy for me. Deep down inside me, there was a seed of hope that I could transfer this chaotic, traumatic, minute-by-minute experience that I knew I'd be having daily. The goal was to put it on paper to capture its essence.
On the other hand, the second part of my writing, on the other hand, the second part of my writing was to send home to my husband, Clinton. I wanted him to understand what the place was like and what the experience was like for me.
I wanted him to know that I was going to return a changed person and that I had written the reasons why in my journals. I wanted him to understand, later on, why. The woman, mother, wife, nurse, American who deployed to a war zone in 2009 was not going to come home whole.
I knew I was going to be different even before I left, but I didn't know how or who I would be when I returned. My hope was that these journal entries could help Clinton better understand what I went through, so he would be somewhat prepared for the woman who was (hopefully) going to come home one day.
The real truth?
The part I never shared with anyone until now in this book?
I wanted to be able to read about the woman I was, so I could read her words and find my way back if I ever got lost.
A lot of jack-up shit happened. And I want you to know, yes you, that this is going to be a fucked-up mess.
My greatest hope now? The reason why I write this book?
Because if you're reading this, you too have likely been through, or in the midst of, some kind of fucked-up mess. Maybe this will be a beacon of light, of hope for you. Perhaps by reading my story, you'll see yourself. And in the end, you’ll realize what I’m still realizing today.
That the only way to truly thrive is to share it, talk about it, let it out and live.
Fucking live!
Come on now.
Buckle-up.
Lock and load.
We’re going to Afghanistan.
CHAPTER 3 – My First 72 Hours
“It's a cruel and random world, but the chaos is all so beautiful.” - Hiromu Arakaw
Afghanistan, January 8, 2009
Amazing, absolutely amazing…the way I felt today. Over the last 72 hours, I have flown from Germany to Manas, Kirghizstan, to Afghanistan. Not only have I traveled across the world in these last 72 hours, but I have done something so amazing I get emotional just thinking about it... you ask, WHAT??? What can be so amazing??? Well, I will tell you, over the past 72 hours, I have been nonstop traveling, missed flights, getting held up to the bad weather, aircraft failure, the hustle and bustle of in-processing, a change in preceptors for orientation to the unit, and even a change in shift, which all led me to one of the most important 72 hours of my life.
For the first time in my life as a nurse, I have never felt more purposeful in what I am doing as a nurse. I took care of a young, 26-year-old Romanian Coalition forces member who was fighting side-by-side with our American troops, and his mission was to be completed in just 3 days. This young guy just had his 26-year-old birthday on the 1st of January, and then on January 3rd, he ended up with blunt force trauma to the head due to an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) blast, causing a basal skull fracture. We had to evacuate an epidural bleed on the brain in order to help save his life. In addition, he also sustained open fractures of the left hand, both eardrums were blown out, and he is on a ventilator. I was this patient's nurse...I was the lucky one to be here to help take care of him and make a difference! He was on 8 different intravenous drips (IV) drips, he was being artificially ventilated, and he could not speak English, so his interpreter had to be at his side 24/7 (the interpreter’s name was LT Fulga).
The patient had just been admitted a few hours before my shift began (remember the start of the 72 hours…how timing is everything…or maybe it was fate?). I carefully received report from the off, going nurse, and ever so meticulously, I started my head to toe assessment, looking at every line, every IV drip, and the ventilation settings, looking at his battered and broken skull, which was held together with staples, assessing his neurological status...as I was doing this, I noticed the patient's interpreter just watching me; he looked so sad. As I completed my assessment, I took a moment and reached out to him with a warm smile. I introduced myself and then began to ask him if he needed anything. I also began to explain to him what was going on with the patient and what the overall plan was. In addition, we went over all the IV lines, the arterial line that was placed in the patient's right wrist to help monitor his internal blood pressure; we also looked over the ventilator and cardiac monitor. I answered all the questions that he had been holding onto for the last few hours.
I could tell Lt. Fulga was very appreciative and put at ease. He was also able to provide more accurate updates to his Commander.
I then began to focus on my patient. For the next 13 hours, I gave my all to this patient–this 26-year-old male whom I will never meet, and he will never know who Lt. Collins was. In a way, I feel as I gave a mall piece of me to him.
The last hours of my first 72.
My shift started at 0630, and there, my patient lay, ventilated, and medically sedated. Per the night shift nurse, there was no change in his status. I had gotten word from our Patient Movement Section that my patient would be air evacuated by CCATT, meaning he would be transported by a large aircraft with the Critical Care Air Transport Team. Immediately after I got to work, there was so much to do in such a short amount of time. The team would arrive in just a few short hours. As I began to get the patient ready to be transported, I made sure that I sat down with Lt. Fulga. We discussed the transport, and I went over the condition of the patient (believe it or not, the patient is expected to make a full recovery).
As Lt. Fulga and I talked, I began to ask about the patient's family. My first question was, does he have a family??? And the answer to that was “YES.” I then asked if his family had been notified. And that answer was also “YES.”
Lt Fulga began to tell me that the Rumanian soldier has a mother and sister that he keeps in contact with. He calls the patient's family every day, and I found out that the patient's sister is also a nurse.
In no time at all, the CCATT team was here to take the soldier to Germany…talk about controlled chaos. As we packaged the patient on the transport gurney and reconnected him to the CCATT equipment, Lt. Fulga came to me and with the sincerest eyes I have ever seen in my life, he took my hand, squeezed it, and said, “Thank you, thank you so much for all you did.” I simply replied, “Thank you...I was just doing my job.”
He then began to say that he called his Commander and he wanted to thank me and sent his deep appreciation for the care, compassion, professionalism and service I provided to one of their troops. I just smiled with tears in my eyes.
Lt. Fulga asked me if he could take a photo of me so that when the Romanian Soldiers awoke and was recovering, he could show the soldier who took care of him and helped save his life. As they left through the trauma Intensive care unit (TICU) doors, Lt. Fulga waved and smiled with a tremendous amount of gratitude radiating from his face.
It is life at its finest: living moment to moment with uncertainty of what patient will be coming through our doors. What new challenges we may face, or what new ethical dilemma we will encounter.
During the same first 72 hours, I also had the opportunity to recover a patient from the operating room. As a patient came to our unit, something was different. This patient had a pair of blacked out eye goggles securely over his eyes, to ensure he could not see anything and hearing protection on so that he could not hear anything around him.
This patient was different.
This patient was an enemy combatant. He was part of the Taliban.
This particular member of the Taliban had been trying to shoot one of our helicopters down, and as a result, he ended up with a gunshot wound to the leg. The man was very fragile looking, almost malnourished; he had two radical Islamic books with him that he had been reading prior to his hospitalization. It was a strange to look into the face of a man, who, if he had the chance and a weapon, would not hesitate to kill me right on the spot. As I removed the blackout goggles, I looked into the eyes of this man, and could feel a sense of rage, horror and hatred.
I was looking deep into the soul of an American killer.
As I helped care for this man, I could not help but think about my 26-year-old patient who was struggling to live because of something this enemy combatant may have had a part in. As we quickly recovered this patient, we transferred him to our TICU, where he under 24-hour watch by two fully armed guards (12G shotguns and 9mm Beretta). I still struggle thinking about caring for these people whose sole mission is to destroy and kill Americans and any others who dare try and help us. I think it will be a constant theme during my time here in Afghanistan.
CHAPTER 4 – The Forging
“You cannot dream yourself into a character; you must hammer and forge yourself one.” - James Anthony Froude
Miami, Arizona 1976
In the sun baked heart of Miami, Arizona, my parents’ love story unfolded. High School sweethearts who wove their futures together, like most young kids do in a small town. Initially, it seemed like a fairy tale, but like but like most things in life, there was no happening ending.
Our existence was etched in the rugged terrain of copper mines, where my dad labored, not as an executive in a plush office, but as a miner, a man who extracted wealth from the Earth's veins. At one point, food stamps were our meager lifeline.
As a child, I walked this reality with innocence, blissfully unaware of our poverty until someone pointed it out. My father's arm, once whole, met its fate in a mining accident at an early age of twenty-four. The surgeon worked their miracles, reattaching it, but the aftermath lingered. He was never the same…swinging between employment and struggle, a perpetual dance on the precipices of survival.
My mom, the local seamstress, stitched our lives together. She sewed not just fabric, but also hope, resilience and the fragile threads of our family of four. In my youthful eyes, we were perfect–an amazing dad, a wonderful mom, and an older brother, who alternated between protecting and tormenting me.
Yet, as I turned eight, the seams of our family began to fray. The core disintegrated, and I witnessed the slow erosion of our once-happy existence. Shitty choices, alcohol and other women chipped away at the foundation of my parents' marriage and our family.
The chapter of childhood innocence closely abruptly, leaving me with anger, sadness and a gnawing sense of powerlessness.
The battle ground shifted to our home. My parents' fights were raw, unkind, and relentless. Even as a young girl, I assumed the role of mediator. When my dad's voice crescendo to my mom outside my bedroom door, I’d step between them, a tiny barrier against their storm.
One night, their argument reached a fever pitch. The walls absorbed the rage, and my heart pounded in sync with his shouts and my mom's cries. A voice, an urgent whisper, compelled me: “Go help. Help her. Go help her now!” Terrified, I threw myself into the fray. My eight-year-old frame wedged between my mom who lay on the ground, and my dad, who towered over her.
I demanded, “DON’T HURT HER!” A desperate plea for peace.
I do not recall how I overcame that terror. But I did. I lay there, shielding my mom from the storm, absorbing the chaos in my small being. The carpeted floor cradled us, and I clung to her, my grip fierce. As I looked into the eyes of my dad, I saw something come over him; he snapped out of the trance he was in, turned around and walked away. Everything stopped; I held onto my mom so tightly that I remember my knuckles were white as snow.
At that moment, I discovered my essence. I was a defender, a protector. More than that, I was a caregiver–an unwavering presence for those who faltered. And so, my journey unfolded: a path of standing up where others could not, of absorbing pain to shield those I loved. The terrified eight-year-old because a sentinel, forever guarding the vulnerable hearts around her.
Taking The Oath
Phoenix, Arizona 1994
When I think back to my younger self in 8th grade, I didn't know what was next.
This may sound ass backwards, but the truth is, I didn't even know HOW to go to college. I was about a year away from finishing high school, and it was never discussed as an option.
At least for me, it wasn't.
I struggled in school–hell I was held back in the 2nd grade. My brother, Tony, in a brotherly way, never let me forget it, either. He’d teased me and tell me I was just dumb. Sure, he's my brother, but there was still a part of me that believed it. I believed what people were saying about me, even back then.
One day, I sat in my room crying, and my mom came in.
She asked me what was wrong, and I told her. I shared that Tony was so smart and that everything was easy for him–sports, school, life. And me? I not only didn't know what I was good at, I had no idea what I even wanted to be. I remember desperately trying to find something that I was good at. My mom sat next to me and held my hand.
I remember my mom, as sweet as she is, holding my hand, looking at me with her little Latina face, saying, “Mija, you're pretty. That's what you're good at. You're good at being pretty.” It seems so stereotypical Latina mom to say that right? Then she continued, “Because as long as you're pretty, you can get a husband. And then you can take care of your husband, have children and keep. And your husband will love you forever.”
Well, that was fucking bullshit.
Looking back, that's all I can remember from that conversation that day and the fact that I started crying even more. This couldn't possibly be all that life was supposed to be.
Right?
