Flowers from Iraq (The Storyteller and the Healer Book 1) Page 5

  “You don’t have to give me your real name, but I should call you something.”

  Kathleen looked down.

  “Okay. I know you’re scared, so I’ll do the talking. Navy nurse, twelve years, hoping for twenty. Twelve years ago, I sat where you are. You and your friend—med students, is my guess. You can survive, but you have to be careful. Most in the medical field won’t care. There are a few assholes, but that’s true in every walk of life.

  Kathleen, mesmerized by Roseanne’s story, began to relax.

  “I used to come in with my gay buddy for dinner, just like the two of you. This is about as safe as it gets. What you don’t want to do is walk outside and hold hands or put your arm around someone. I always keep a picture of my gay friend in my locker and on my desk. I let everyone think he’s my boyfriend. When you’re in training or on base, be asexual. That’s how you’ll stay safe.”

  Roseanne twirled the stem of her wine glass between her long fingers and went on her practiced philosophical manner. “You will be giving up an important part of your life. You will fight for freedom, but not be free. As long as you’re in the military you won’t be able to live in the open with someone you love and who loves you. The hardest part is finding a partner who will hide in the closet with you. As for me—so far, no luck.”

  Roseanne lifted her glass and drained it in one swallow. “It’s still a damn good career.”

  A small smiled played across Kathleen’s face. “Hello Roseanne, my name is Kathleen.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Captain Kathleen Moore rode the elevator from the ground floor at Madigan Army Medical Center in Tacoma, Washington, to the Administrative Offices on the seventh floor. She rested her head against the wall of the empty elevator and closed her eyes for a fifteen-second nap. Her shift at the Family Medicine twenty-four-hour walk-in clinic had been nonstop from the moment she walked in until she left for the day. Worried parents brought in fussy babies with earaches and sore throats. Overweight patients with uncontrolled diabetes needed their glucose monitored and medication adjusted. Soldiers returning from being deployed didn’t want to deal with their nightmares or angry outbursts, and requested medication to make it go away. She referred three to the psych clinic.

  Tomorrow was her day off and she began to fantasize about ordering a pizza and staying in bed all day, sleeping and watching TV, when her “things to do” list suddenly materialized. Her refrigerator was empty and so was her gas tank. The list grew: pick up uniforms at the dry cleaners, clean the apartment, pay bills. Her day in bed began to fade.

  She was poised to knock on Colonel White’s office door for her 2:00 pm appointment when the door opened, a quick salute, a gesture to sit, and an offer of coffee.

  “Still taking it black, Kathleen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Never could understand drinking it neat,” he said as he handed her a Styrofoam cup filled with a thick, murky liquid.

  She held the cup close to her mouth and smelled the strong, stale coffee. Now she could understand his need to drink it mixed.

  Colonel White sat behind a desk covered with random papers and thick personnel files. “Your review is in here somewhere.” He spoke casually as he continued his search. “Got your results from the board exams?”

  “Any day now, sir.”

  He nodded as he shuffled files. “Any concerns about getting your certification?”

  “No sir,” she lied.

  “Good, we want our docs to get board certified. Here it is,” he said, picking up a thick, gray-green pressboard file. “This’ll all be computerized in a few years, or so they say.”

  Colonel White, a round-faced man who recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday, sat back in his office chair, tipping back and forth, his eyes half-closed. His broad hand moved over his bald head, stopping abruptly as if it was still expecting to find the thick black hair of his youth.

  “You’ve seen your evaluation and signed off on it. It’s excellent, Kathleen. Your clinical skills as a Family Physician are outstanding. Are you thinking of making the Army your career?”

  “Thank you, sir. And, yes sir, I want this for my career.”

  “Don’t thank me so quickly.” He smiled. “There’s a note in here, not part of your evaluation or file, something about interpersonal skills.” He handed the note to Kathleen.

  Dr. Moore is highly skilled in almost every clinical area. However, a concern has been raised about her interpersonal skills. For the most part, her interactions with patients and staff are thoughtful and appropriate. However, from time to time, she seems to change abruptly and becomes standoffish.

  Kathleen could feel a blush starting and spoke hesitantly. “I’m aware of the problem, sir. It doesn’t happen often and I’m trying to stay alert to the situation.”

  She returned the note to Colonel White. He nodded. “Get a handle on it. You’ll be up for a promotion soon and you don’t want anything negative in your file.” He took the note, tore it into small pieces, and threw them ceremoniously in the green metal trashcan next to his desk.

  He held his coffee mug in his hand and relaxed back into his chair. “I’ve been in the service for twenty years, enlisted in 1982.” He blinked, trying to clear his eyes from the irritating paper dust and long hours of reading files. “Seen it all in those twenty. Assignments to Europe and Asia, deployed to Iraq during the Gulf War, then Bosnia and now a desk job.” He sighed. “This,” he pointed to the mess on his desk, “is critical, but after 9/11… I sure do miss the action.”

  He looked directly at Kathleen. “I’ve learned a lot over these years. Lots of posturing about strike first, hit ’um hard, get in and get out.”

  He shook his head. “Then there’s the silent talk, the chatter between the lines that tells me, when we do invade Iraq, we’ll be there for quite a while. Right now, there’s a big push to get more physicians trained in emergency medicine.” He paused to take a long-drawn-out swig of his coffee. “Interested in a second residency?”

  Kathleen sat up straight, her mood shifting from one of embarrassment to excitement. “Yes, sir. I’ve always been interested in an emergency residency program.”

  “There’s a spot at a civilian hospital. You know about Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s where Dr. Cowley developed the concept of the ‘Golden Hour.’”

  Colonel White nodded. “Speed and skill of treatment in the first hour after injury. It’s what our wounded deserve and what we’re aiming for. This is a plum opportunity; best place for you to get trained.”

  “I would be honored, sir, but doesn’t that mean I won’t be eligible for deployment until I complete my residency? I’ve been ready since 9/11 and I’m eager to serve.”

  “If I’m reading this correctly you’ll get your chance to deploy. I don’t think this war is going away.”

  She had two weeks leave before reporting to Shock Trauma Center. She would spend a few days in Los Angeles before flying to Baltimore to find an apartment and settle into what she knew would be a stressful but exciting three years.

  The note had bothered her more than she had revealed to Colonel White. She desperately needed to talk to Gayle.

  She wanted Gayle to see her as she was today, a thirty-one-year-old captain in the United States Army, and changed into her Green Service Uniform at LAX before catching a cab to Gayle’s office.

  Gayle’s outstretched arms greeted Kathleen. A long hug and an even longer appraising look. “Baby, you’re beautiful. I always was a sucker for a uniform.”

  Kathleen smiled, reached in her pocket, took out two crisp one-dollar bills, and placed them on Gayle’s desk. She glanced at the couch, remembering the times she lay crying, telling Gayle her troubles and being fed in so many ways.

  Gayle looked at her “fee.” “Baby, what is this about?”

  “Gayle, I need to talk.”

  “You know I can’t be your therapist; that role changed years ago.”

 
“Understood, but I need advice and you know me better than anyone.”

  “What’s going on, Kathleen?”

  “I’m getting called on my interpersonal skills and I’ve got to get a handle on it. Sometimes it happens when I’m examining a patient. I’ll be talking with them and if I discover something during my examination I’ll move completely into my head. It’s hard for me to explain, but it’s as if I’ve lost the human connection.”

  Kathleen reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Lately, it’s gotten worse. There are times when I’ll be talking with someone… anyone actually… and suddenly, my body stiffens and I start to withdraw.”

  “When did you notice the change?”

  Kathleen closed her eyes for a minute. “It was during my third year residency. I was doing a four-week rotation in the Psych Department; that was a hard one for me. I don’t know why but I think that’s when it started to get worse.”

  Gayle sighed and sat back in her chair. Her mind went back to those days when she had to comfort a frightened, confused child. Now, she was sitting across from an accomplished physician who only wanted practical advice. “Kathleen, do you remember, years ago, when I defined the word normal for you?”

  “It changed my life.”

  “That was straight from my heart; no analysis, no bullshit. Would you like another straight from the heart?”

  “It’s what I’m hoping for.”

  Gayle handed Kathleen the two dollars. “I think you’d better keep these. There’s no charge for what I’m about to tell you. You have two different situations and I don’t think they’re related.” Gayle shook her head. “Not at all. The first one deals with being a physician. I know your heart. You’re kind and compassionate and your patients feel it. When you discover a problem you move into your head; they sense the disconnection and feel dropped. I think the answer to that behavior is a matter of staying aware and racking up more years of experience.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that one, but what about the other situation? When I’m talking with someone in a friendly way and then bang, I become downright cold? Remember when I was called a robot? That’s what it feels like.”

  Gayle sat back in her chair thinking. “You said you had a rough time during your rotation in the Psych Ward. I don’t want you to answer, but I want you to think about it. What happened that upset you so? It sounds like whatever your experience was, it caused a reaction. Something pushed your buttons and they’ve stayed pushed.”

  Kathleen’s hands began to tremble, a sign to Gayle that she had hit close to home.

  “I can’t talk about it and I can’t go there. The next three years are going to be really intense and my mind has to be clear. Please don’t tell me I need more therapy.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve got enough on your plate right now.”

  Gayle stood up, opened the desk drawer intended to store her files, and returned with a black-and-white paisley gift bag. “I was saving this for tonight, but I think you should open it now.”

  Kathleen chuckled. “Therapy in a box, umm, I mean a bag.” She reached inside and took out a black moleskin leather journal.

  “Thank you, it’s beautiful. I’ve never had a journal before. I’m used to e-mails and cell phones and post-it notes for quick reminders.”

  “Journaling is different. This is a place to hold your feelings and no one ever has to read it, unless you want them to. Write,” she insisted. “Write about your feelings; it will help keep you in balance.”

  Kathleen settled into the aisle seat on the flight from Los Angeles to Baltimore. She purposely took the red-eye, knowing that most of the passengers would try to sleep and the plane would be quiet except for occasional snoring or a tired infant needing to be soothed. She wanted time to think about what Gayle had said and took the journal out of her backpack. She looked around the cabin. Most of the passengers were sleeping, some resting comfortably against the person next to them.

  She wrote the date in the journal.

  May 2, 2002 – lonely.

  Her thoughts went to Gary. He was stationed in Germany at Landstuhl Regional Hospital. Goofy as ever, but earning the respect of his colleagues as a top-notch neurosurgeon. Gary was her best friend. He knew so much about her, but not everything. No one knew everything about her, not even Gayle.

  She wrote another word in her journal, sad.

  She usually didn’t allow the sad feelings to surface. She wondered if Gayle’s journal held the same magic as her couch. There were times when the pain from the loneliness would engulf her and she would long for someone to share her day, her thoughts, and her feelings. Someone she could love and who would love her. She wondered, Would that ever happen?

  She sat back and closed her eyes. She would never forget that day in the Psych Ward. It was the woman sitting in a chair; long, matted red hair cascading down her back, faded eyes open and staring into nothingness. Even now, she could feel the visceral reaction racing through her body. She couldn’t allow old memories to get in the way, not now, not ever. She had come too far, given up too much. She opened the journal and again wrote one word, Never.

  She closed the pages, returned her journal to her backpack, and tried to sleep.

  The three years at Shock went quickly, oh so quickly. She felt time was out of control, spinning around like the Mad Tea Cup ride at Disneyland. She was grateful for the experience, she had learned so much, but was relieved when her residency ended.

  She glanced around her Baltimore apartment. Packed suitcases and boxes covered the worn carpeting. Not much to say goodbye to; a place to rest her head between shifts at Shock. She opened her journal and glanced at her most recent entry.

  March 20, 2005 – Received my promotion to Major. Colonel White was right. The war didn’t go away. I report to Fort Bragg then deploy to Iraq. Will get in a couple of weeks leave before reporting. Gayle and Robert want me to spend time with them but I’ll spend a few days in San Francisco first. Hearing about horrible things happening in Iraq. Pray I’m up for the task.

  Kathleen didn’t want to feel anything right now, but the word seemed to write itself: Scared.

  From time to time Kathleen thought wistfully about Roseanne. She would have her twenty years in and probably be retired by now. Kathleen imagined her in a sweet house, somewhere in the country, with an even sweeter woman by her side. She saw them cooking dinner together, laughing, eyes sparkling, gently brushing against each other.

  Roseanne was the first woman to kiss her tenderly, and bring her body to life. The only woman to massage her back, with lotion found in the hotel bathroom, until she began to cry, and the pain from all the years seeped out of every pore. When she began to fall asleep, Roseanne kissed her goodbye and whispered, “You’re easy to love, Kathleen.”

  That night she had a dream. She was at the library she frequented as a child. She bought a book on sale and the librarian leaned over and whispered, “You’re easy to love, Kathleen.” She looked up and saw Roseanne. She held the book next to her heart and tried to skip home, only she didn’t know where home was. A woman joined her and held her hand. “You’re easy to love, Kathleen.” Skip, skip, skip. “You’re easy to love, Kathleen.” Skip, skip, skip.

  CHAPTER 10

  Kathleen met Sam Hughes at Fort Bragg while they were preparing for deployment to Iraq. His deep blue eyes drew her to him; eyes that were like windows, and if she looked closely she could see what he had seen: not a photograph of a scene, but a photograph of pain.

  They were assigned to the same Combat Support Hospital (CSH), and it was natural for their paths to cross repeatedly in classes and at the pistol range. Quite by chance, they picked the same time for the gym. In the beginning, they exchanged smiles and progressed to saying hello. Later, they began to sit together at the mess hall.

  Kathleen was staring at her dinner: Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, green salad, and broccoli, all about as appetizing as week-old road kill.

  Sam watched her with amuse
ment. “You’ll be dreaming about this food when you’re in Iraq.”

  She pouted. “I’m craving Chinese food. I’d rather dream about that than this.” She put her fork in the mashed potatoes and watched as it stood at attention.

  “Uh, Kathleen, I hate to tell you but you just pouted. I think that might fall under the category of behavior unbecoming an officer.” He smiled. “Let’s go. I know an absolutely authentic Chinese restaurant. It’s the real deal.”

  They drove to a seedy part of town and walked into the dimly lit China Bistro. Black lacquered screens with faux-ivory inlays of flowers and horses were placed around small groups of tables, creating a private atmosphere for diners. There were some familiar faces, medical staff that would deploy with them, and they stopped to chat for a few minutes.

  Kathleen thought, Here goes the rumor mill. At least I’m with the right gender.

  At Kathleen’s request, they were seated in a quiet booth at the back of the restaurant.

  Sam said, “Let’s start with the combination tray. We’ll get an assortment of appetizers and after that, who knows?”

  “I’m game, as long as it’s fried and unhealthy.”

  The appetizers arrived, along with their drinks. They both ordered mai-tais, toasted to their health, and dove into the plate of assorted dumplings, spareribs, egg rolls, and fried wontons.

  “Fried enough for you?” Sam said, between bites.

  Kathleen dabbed her greasy fingers on her napkin and said, “Perfect, although I may end up in the ER tonight—as a patient, that is.”

  Sam wiped his hands, sat back and patted his stomach. “I’ve got to watch this paunch. No matter what, after twenty-years in the military, your corporation will start to grow, as my daddy always said.” He smiled. “I saw your photo of Gary Morales. I took some training classes with Gary, back when he was a resident and I was getting certified as a Physician Assistant.” He reached for another sparerib. “Holy flippin’ Jesus, these are really good.”