On Thursday I'll be having Cardioversion done again. It will be the third time I have had it done. My heart is beating really irregular and they will attempt to shock it back into rhythm. From what I found out by going to the Vet Center, heart problems are typical of veterans with PTSD.
During the prep time prior to the procedure, they will get everything ready including the Ambu bag should I stop breathing. The Ambu bag is the only thing I notice.
I had not been at my assignment at the 24th very long when several NVA soldiers were sent to our hospital. One of them was shot in the forehead. Because of the number of wounded in the ER, one of the staff took me over to him, showed me how to use the Ambu bag and then left me with him so they could tend to the other NVA and wounded GI's. At that time, this was very new to me. I had no medical training, and was just trained to be a Communications Center Specialist. This was totally alien.
I began to pump the bag as directed. After a short time I felt that I really needed to look at this person, the enemy, to prepare me for the time I may be needed for an American GI. I did not want to freak should I be needed to assist my fellow brothers. I looked at him and could see the wound which wasn't' that large and his eyes were half open and glassy. There was no movement. He was young. I kept pumping the bag and followed him into X-ray, etc. I was with him for quite some time before the staff was able to return to him. At that time I realized just how much blood I now had on my hands, fatigues, boots, etc. They took him to the ward for critical patients. I was informed a couple days later by my best friend Tom, an OR Tech, that he was dead.
As each day went by I realized that this would be my normal day from 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. - seven days a week (a minimum of 12 hours a day). The only difference is that the above doesn't come near the horror I would see and the duties I would perform.
It's late and time to get ready for another joy and pray for all by Brothers. You are always in my thoughts and prayers.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
My Birth to Kindergarten
I was born in August of 1950. I was supposed to be born later but the Dr. was leaving town so the decision was made to speed things up. I was born at St. Catherine's in Omaha to a Plasterer and Homemaker. My dad was a Catholic and my mom converted. Boy did she, I guess that would explain the eight kids. Of course I don't remember much of my early life as most others. About the only thing I remember is a couple things at Kindergarten at Edward Rosewater School. I remember the name cards with our names on them and another kid smiling at me when we were hitting the piano keys. I would later be in Catholic Grade School with him. The main thing I remember is that one day after nap time, I could not reach the higher shelf in the closet to put up my mat. (I was shy to tell the teacher or ask for help.) I tried and tried but was unable to do it. Somewhere, somehow I ended back in the classroom but missed the graham crackers and milk. My mom was angry and talked to the teacher about this and I actually remember being embarrassed by that. Well, that's all I remember up to five years old.
It may sound crazy but after 59 years on this earth I have often wondered if I hadn't been induced, would that have made any differences in my life? I do know that it would have had an impact on my draft number. It could have been higher or lower with a major impact on my life either way, but were there any other things impacted by the date I should have been born on the day I was to have been?
There was a positive in all of this and that was my Army service in Vietnam and I'll write of those impacts in future post.
It may sound crazy but after 59 years on this earth I have often wondered if I hadn't been induced, would that have made any differences in my life? I do know that it would have had an impact on my draft number. It could have been higher or lower with a major impact on my life either way, but were there any other things impacted by the date I should have been born on the day I was to have been?
There was a positive in all of this and that was my Army service in Vietnam and I'll write of those impacts in future post.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Korean Officer and His Soldier
At the 24th Evac, we saw many GI's from Countries who had soldiers serving in Vietnam from Australia, Korea, Thailand, etc.
One night two Korean Soldiers came into the A&D. One came over to me and, with extremely poor English, tried to speak to me. It was a rather odd moment for me. I had heard that the Koreans were fierce fighting men and perhaps that was a big carryover from the Korean War and that had been a conversation between me and other GI's from time to time at the 24th. Now here we had an Officer trying his best to seek help for his soldier. After a period of time I began to understand what he was trying to say and was then able to talk to the ER staff and then they spoke with the Officer and was able to treat his man.
One thing that really touched me that night was the Officers treatment of his soldier. He showed such concern, compassion, etc. for him and displayed that openly and by the look of his man, that was extremely important and needed. To this Officer it did not not seem to matter that the medical issue was small, what mattered was his soldier and a human being.
For a short time that night I didnt' think about all the tradegy around me but of the Officer's support and caring he displayed. I was touched by what I had witnessed and that in all this madness, there was a simple act of kindness and concern that not only touched his soldier but me as well.
One night two Korean Soldiers came into the A&D. One came over to me and, with extremely poor English, tried to speak to me. It was a rather odd moment for me. I had heard that the Koreans were fierce fighting men and perhaps that was a big carryover from the Korean War and that had been a conversation between me and other GI's from time to time at the 24th. Now here we had an Officer trying his best to seek help for his soldier. After a period of time I began to understand what he was trying to say and was then able to talk to the ER staff and then they spoke with the Officer and was able to treat his man.
One thing that really touched me that night was the Officers treatment of his soldier. He showed such concern, compassion, etc. for him and displayed that openly and by the look of his man, that was extremely important and needed. To this Officer it did not not seem to matter that the medical issue was small, what mattered was his soldier and a human being.
For a short time that night I didnt' think about all the tradegy around me but of the Officer's support and caring he displayed. I was touched by what I had witnessed and that in all this madness, there was a simple act of kindness and concern that not only touched his soldier but me as well.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A Good Catholic Boy
I was born into a Catholic Family, Baptized Catholic and had most of the Sacraments. I know that I will never change my Religion but have the utmost respect for all Religions but Catholic just happens to be mine. Now I'd like to believe I'm a "Good Catholic Boy", but I'm sure at the end of it all, God and I will be having it out. I have a lot of things to say to him and probably a lot in my life he wasn't too keen about that he wants to address. So, if you are up there at the same time as are waiting to find out where you'll end up, you better get in line before me because who knows long long this will take. But then again, it could be a good show.
My family was poor, but as Catholics had eight kids. (The eighth was free at St. Catherine's Hospital in Omaha.) I was second oldest and the first boy.
I'll have a lot to say on my upbringing and early life in other posts but I'll just touch on growing up Catholic a little here today. I went to St. Rose Catholic Church and School in Omaha. I started serving mass in perhaps 3rd grade or so. My speech wasn't the greatest then or now as far as I am concerned. To learn Latin was awful and I was awful at it. I remember my first mass with Fr. Moron. I was scared, he was mean and of course my mom was in the hospital giving birth again so she couldn't be there.
I did a terrible job, the priest got mad and I think I cried. Little did I know that until the eighth grade (and off and on in high school) I'd be serving mass a lot. Fr. Moron would call early many times as he was going to say mass earlier. I think he called me and I served so much as we didn't have money to give the church. My oldest sister was actually sent off to a Public School somewhere during her school years as boys were more important and had bigger shoes to fill and thought of less that women. (My opinion.)
After mass and before school me and the other Alter Boy would sometimes have a little wine and the large host (not yet consecrated) for breakfast. I think at times we even added a little jelly. Of course it was unleven bread so it didn't taste that great.
I loved serving funerals because we got to ride in a limousine (a real limousine) with the priest. And if we were lucky we would go to a cemetery clear across town and miss the whole morning of school. At the time I really knew nothing of death other than the people were sad and cried. One thing touched me was when the coffin had the American Flag on it. I can't describe how I felt or why, I just knew it was something very special.
Ok - I know the question that is burning in your head. Was I sexually abused as a young boy by the priest. No, never happened. Never close. Never?
Well, right after I got out of the service there was an incident. It could not have come at a worse time. I was a total mess and hanging on by a thread. In the near future I'll write of that incident.
Just a few more Catholic thoughts, etc.:
My family was poor, but as Catholics had eight kids. (The eighth was free at St. Catherine's Hospital in Omaha.) I was second oldest and the first boy.
I'll have a lot to say on my upbringing and early life in other posts but I'll just touch on growing up Catholic a little here today. I went to St. Rose Catholic Church and School in Omaha. I started serving mass in perhaps 3rd grade or so. My speech wasn't the greatest then or now as far as I am concerned. To learn Latin was awful and I was awful at it. I remember my first mass with Fr. Moron. I was scared, he was mean and of course my mom was in the hospital giving birth again so she couldn't be there.
I did a terrible job, the priest got mad and I think I cried. Little did I know that until the eighth grade (and off and on in high school) I'd be serving mass a lot. Fr. Moron would call early many times as he was going to say mass earlier. I think he called me and I served so much as we didn't have money to give the church. My oldest sister was actually sent off to a Public School somewhere during her school years as boys were more important and had bigger shoes to fill and thought of less that women. (My opinion.)
After mass and before school me and the other Alter Boy would sometimes have a little wine and the large host (not yet consecrated) for breakfast. I think at times we even added a little jelly. Of course it was unleven bread so it didn't taste that great.
I loved serving funerals because we got to ride in a limousine (a real limousine) with the priest. And if we were lucky we would go to a cemetery clear across town and miss the whole morning of school. At the time I really knew nothing of death other than the people were sad and cried. One thing touched me was when the coffin had the American Flag on it. I can't describe how I felt or why, I just knew it was something very special.
Ok - I know the question that is burning in your head. Was I sexually abused as a young boy by the priest. No, never happened. Never close. Never?
Well, right after I got out of the service there was an incident. It could not have come at a worse time. I was a total mess and hanging on by a thread. In the near future I'll write of that incident.
Just a few more Catholic thoughts, etc.:
- I don't believe I have to go to church every Sunday. That does not mean I am a good Catholic nor is it the only place to pray. I do, however, feel very comforted when I am in church.
- I don't go to confession or reconciliation as it is now called. During mass in Vietnam there was a general confession where one confessed their sins directly to God and to me, that just made more sense and I could be more honest.
- I dislike it when the choir or parishioners sing "Let There Be Peace On Earth". I am overcome with emotions and flooded with memories. I find it very hard to try to hold my emotions and tears in and usually fail.
- For me, being in Mass in Church bring a flood of emotions at times which, at times, makes it difficult for me to keep hidden. But then - the congregation is probably looking at me as "Why is that guy crying - the priest just told a joke?"
Well, that's a little about my religion and I'm sure I'll be talking about it some more.
He said "I need help" - What could I do?
A young soldier came into the A&D office one night. He looked like all of the young men serving in Vietnam. The Jungle Fatigues, Jungle Boots, etc. I spoke with him. He became user of drugs and wanted help. I don't remember if ER Staff saw him or not but do remember that they felt there was nothing they could do for him and he would have to come back tomorrow.
It was one of those few nights where it was somewhat quiet. He was sitting on one of the four or five chairs we had. I grabbed one of the old magazines laying around and went over and sat by him. I started a little conversation and he asked that I close the magazine, which I did. Do I remember the little bit of conversation we had. No. But I remember him saying "I need help".
These three words really hit me hard. "I need help." What could I do?" He was already turned away as there was no physical injuries, wounds, etc. that we saw constantly. What could I do? I sat there with him for a little while, neither of us speaking. "What could I do"started to sound like "What can I do." Many different things. I could just sit in silence. I could go back to work on the admissions report or the 24 hour report, etc.
"What can I do" began to sound like "I can help". I asked him to sit there and I went behind the curtain into ER. I spoke to one of the nurses and pleaded my case for this young man. She listened. And she didn't say "What can I do". She said "I can get him admitted. It may be for only tonight but I can get him admitted." She did.
I'll never know what happened after he was admitted or what happened in the following days, weeks and years. But I do know that he is my brother always in my heart, thoughts and prayers.
It was one of those few nights where it was somewhat quiet. He was sitting on one of the four or five chairs we had. I grabbed one of the old magazines laying around and went over and sat by him. I started a little conversation and he asked that I close the magazine, which I did. Do I remember the little bit of conversation we had. No. But I remember him saying "I need help".
These three words really hit me hard. "I need help." What could I do?" He was already turned away as there was no physical injuries, wounds, etc. that we saw constantly. What could I do? I sat there with him for a little while, neither of us speaking. "What could I do"started to sound like "What can I do." Many different things. I could just sit in silence. I could go back to work on the admissions report or the 24 hour report, etc.
"What can I do" began to sound like "I can help". I asked him to sit there and I went behind the curtain into ER. I spoke to one of the nurses and pleaded my case for this young man. She listened. And she didn't say "What can I do". She said "I can get him admitted. It may be for only tonight but I can get him admitted." She did.
I'll never know what happened after he was admitted or what happened in the following days, weeks and years. But I do know that he is my brother always in my heart, thoughts and prayers.
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