Dust. An overwhelming amount, filled my nostrils, as I deplaned the C-130 in Mosul, Iraq. At 23, I grew up accustomed to the beaches in Galveston, but never anticipated that I would be engulfed in a sand storm, as soon as I arrived.
The first trauma. A decapitation of an American Soldier, who couldn\’t have been more than a couple years older than me. Or maybe they just looked older, when the life was taken out of them. I had just left Combat Medic training at Fort Sam Houston, not even a month before, and here I was standing over the corpse of my reality for the next year.
A whistling sound that grew, as we all ducked for cover. My first encounter, with what would be a tri-daily occurrence for 363 days. Christmas and Christmas Eve, somehow were respected, and bombs did not fly, despite the common grievance, that it probably would.
Blood. And not my own, was the first taste I can remember, distinctly. When you are saving lives, body fluids are often unpredictable, to say the least.
His hand… held out to me as he boarded the plane to go to Germany, fearful that he wouldn\’t survive the Medavac, after being blown up in the largest Mass Casualty incident in Iraq, to date. His hair was scorched from the building catching on fire, and 2 chest tubes gave him a life line to succeed, in due time. He begged me to go with him. Four days before Christmas, we lost 26 lives, and treated over 100 more.
The memories. What I get to live with. Often shut down, as you don\’t have time to process the emotions that goes with being in Healthcare, in a combat zone. You couldn\’t break down, because you had a job to do, and the patients kept coming. Those memories torture me in small ways, and even followed me later in life, with families contacting me to talk about loved ones, passing. PTSD, a diagnosis that isn\’t nicely fit in a box, and the only way to deal with it, is to deal with the painful memories. Its tough when everybody in the Northern half of Iraq, came through you. That\’s a lot of emotions.
My legacy. My beautiful, intelligent 9 year old daughter, who knows the sacrifice of those I couldn\’t mend. She has been along side of those who were burned, lost appendages, or just couldn\’t get right in the mind. They came to know her, when I worked for the Wounded Warrior Battalion. This is where I decided that I wanted to continue on with healthcare, but be on the other side of the situation. I wanted to be the one who would help these men and women, rehabilitate, to live their legacies out. It is said that in Occupational Therapy that Physical Therapy teaches you to walk again, and OT teaches you to dance. All my pain and emotions of war, the senses that haunt me, are because my job hasn\’t been finished. To finish my walk of life, I have to heal in a full circle. So I have chosen to get a Masters in Occupational Therapy, to where once again, I can hold their hands, and be the encouragement that they need to believe in themselves, and rebuild a life.
The changes that I have seen Wounded Warriors achieve with Occupational Therapy, has simply amazed me. A Navy brother was wounded in a ship boiler accident, and what was thought to be a loss of life, resulted in him being fully functional on his own again, from buttoning shirts, to being able to drive. His journey was one that truly inspired me, with his hard work, and heart.
As a single mom, I struggle with financial help, and would be honored to be selected for your prestigious scholarship. However, I also know that there are so many deserving Veterans, out there. I don\’t envy the responsibility of choosing, but I would be just as humbled to know that it goes to one of my brothers and sisters in arms. Thank you for offering the chance.
