completely.
However, in his sleep, he had never truly left Afghanistan. In the dark hospital room, only illuminated by monitors and equipment, blinking and buzzing, he sweated through his gown, moaned in his sleep and relived the pain of being shot.
Stuck in a state of panic, Brett gripped the covers and screamed out, veins protruding in his neck, bloodshot eyes popping open. “INCOMING!” he yelled, voice echoing down the hall.
His own screams jolted him awake. Frantically, he looked around for his men, but no one was there.
When he realized where he was – not in a war zone but safe in a hospital bed - he rested his head back on the sweat soaked pillow and felt a sharp pain shoot through his leg up to his waist. At the same time that he tried to adjust, another pain shot through his chest from his dislocated arm. The frustration of all of it was too much. Croaking out a curse, he began to cry.
“Fuck you,” he sobbed. “Fuck all of you,” he said, thinking of Nabi’s dead son.
The door to the hospital room flew open and a small, heavyset nurse in pink scrubs, and graying blonde bob flipped on the lights. With a smile, she walked up to his bedside, pulled out her stethoscope and began to check his vitals.
“How are you doing, Staff Sergeant. Black?” she asked in a Bostonian accent. She looked him dead in the eyes as if to say, I’m talking to you.
Brett tried to speak but his throat was sore from the tubes they had used earlier. “I’m fine,” he lied. “It was just a nightmare.” Another nightmare. He tried quickly to wipe his face of the tears. He was tired of crying in front of these people. Looking over to the clock on the table, he licked his cracked lips. “I need to call my wife,” he said as another pain hit him. He winced in pain.
“Alright, let’s get you some pain meds, first.” She picked up his chart and flipped through the pages. “Looks like you’re due some pain management in less than 15 minutes, so I’m going to give it to you early.”
He tried to catch his breath. “If I take the meds, it makes it hard for me to control what I say,” Brett explained as he balled up his fists. “I have a low tolerance for drugs. I have since I was a kid.” He thought back to when he had busted his knee in high school football and had been placed on pain meds. It had been a nightmare when he accidentally cursed at his mother. He can still remember her tears…right before she slapped him.
The nurse chuckled. “Which is why you want to talk to your wife first…” she assumed as she put the chart down. “Don’t want to say the wrong thing?”
“Yes ma’am.” Brett wiped his eyes again. The tears wouldn’t stop despite the fact that he now knew where he was. “I just think if I hear her voice, I’ll feel better. Maybe I’ll be able to get some rest.”
There were no other words that needed to be exchanged as far as the nurse was concerned. Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she passed it to him. “The phones shut off here at a certain time. You can use mine, if you make it quick. I have a few errands to run. I’ll just leave you to it, and I’ll come back when I’m done.”
Brett was grateful. “Thank you…very much.” He struggled to pull himself up in the bed. There had to be a comfortable place in this bed where he could get some relief.
“I’ve got two boys over there in Afghanistan,” she winked. “We’re all family as far as I’m concerned.” Leaving him alone in the room, she closed the door quietly.
As soon as the phone rang, Courtney answered.
“Hello,” she said voice groggy. Looking at the alarm clock on the night stand, she raised up in the bed.
Brett paused. She sounded beautiful, even at two in the morning. Salty tears began to form again. “It’s me, baby,” he said, mouth quivering.
Courtney’s voice sounded strained.
However, in his sleep, he had never truly left Afghanistan. In the dark hospital room, only illuminated by monitors and equipment, blinking and buzzing, he sweated through his gown, moaned in his sleep and relived the pain of being shot.
Stuck in a state of panic, Brett gripped the covers and screamed out, veins protruding in his neck, bloodshot eyes popping open. “INCOMING!” he yelled, voice echoing down the hall.
His own screams jolted him awake. Frantically, he looked around for his men, but no one was there.
When he realized where he was – not in a war zone but safe in a hospital bed - he rested his head back on the sweat soaked pillow and felt a sharp pain shoot through his leg up to his waist. At the same time that he tried to adjust, another pain shot through his chest from his dislocated arm. The frustration of all of it was too much. Croaking out a curse, he began to cry.
“Fuck you,” he sobbed. “Fuck all of you,” he said, thinking of Nabi’s dead son.
The door to the hospital room flew open and a small, heavyset nurse in pink scrubs, and graying blonde bob flipped on the lights. With a smile, she walked up to his bedside, pulled out her stethoscope and began to check his vitals.
“How are you doing, Staff Sergeant. Black?” she asked in a Bostonian accent. She looked him dead in the eyes as if to say, I’m talking to you.
Brett tried to speak but his throat was sore from the tubes they had used earlier. “I’m fine,” he lied. “It was just a nightmare.” Another nightmare. He tried quickly to wipe his face of the tears. He was tired of crying in front of these people. Looking over to the clock on the table, he licked his cracked lips. “I need to call my wife,” he said as another pain hit him. He winced in pain.
“Alright, let’s get you some pain meds, first.” She picked up his chart and flipped through the pages. “Looks like you’re due some pain management in less than 15 minutes, so I’m going to give it to you early.”
He tried to catch his breath. “If I take the meds, it makes it hard for me to control what I say,” Brett explained as he balled up his fists. “I have a low tolerance for drugs. I have since I was a kid.” He thought back to when he had busted his knee in high school football and had been placed on pain meds. It had been a nightmare when he accidentally cursed at his mother. He can still remember her tears…right before she slapped him.
The nurse chuckled. “Which is why you want to talk to your wife first…” she assumed as she put the chart down. “Don’t want to say the wrong thing?”
“Yes ma’am.” Brett wiped his eyes again. The tears wouldn’t stop despite the fact that he now knew where he was. “I just think if I hear her voice, I’ll feel better. Maybe I’ll be able to get some rest.”
There were no other words that needed to be exchanged as far as the nurse was concerned. Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she passed it to him. “The phones shut off here at a certain time. You can use mine, if you make it quick. I have a few errands to run. I’ll just leave you to it, and I’ll come back when I’m done.”
Brett was grateful. “Thank you…very much.” He struggled to pull himself up in the bed. There had to be a comfortable place in this bed where he could get some relief.
“I’ve got two boys over there in Afghanistan,” she winked. “We’re all family as far as I’m concerned.” Leaving him alone in the room, she closed the door quietly.
As soon as the phone rang, Courtney answered.
“Hello,” she said voice groggy. Looking at the alarm clock on the night stand, she raised up in the bed.
Brett paused. She sounded beautiful, even at two in the morning. Salty tears began to form again. “It’s me, baby,” he said, mouth quivering.
Courtney’s voice sounded strained.
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