Ultrapedestrian Wilderness Challenge Double Desolation Mind/Body Challenge

Following is a two-part report of the Ultrapedestrian Wildnerness Challenge (UPWC) Double Desolation Mind/Body Challenge.  This is a 93-mile route from the North Cascades Highway to the Canadian border and back via the Ross Lake East Bank trail that includes two summits of Desolation Peak.  Jack Kerouac spent a summer on this peak in 1956, and a part of this challenge is a reflection of his experiences and mine. 

27 June 2017

[Posted online] **Calling my shot.  On Saturday, 1 July, I will attempt the UPWC Double Desolation Mind/Body Challenge.  Following is my introduction.**

In the 1995 edition of Desolation Angels, Joyce Johnson penned a thoughtful introduction that described Jack Kerouac’s 63 days as a summer fire lookout on Desolation Peak as one of his last major adventures.  Based on his writings and personal letters of the time, she speculated about his apparent disconnect with society, his constant search for meaning, and the pervasion of restlessness in his life.  With his early death at the age of 47 from complications associated with long-term alcohol abuse, some quickly dismiss his writings and philosophies while pointing to this untimely demise as evidence of waste and senselessness.  Perhaps it’s easier that way.  Perhaps that’s how we make sense of it.  Perhaps that’s how we cognitively sort it, categorize it, understand it, stow it away, and move on.    

But, his life.  His life - it begs to be examined. 

Jack went to Desolation Peak as a modern day pilgrimage.  He hoped to find something in himself.  He hoped to find meaning.  What he found was his need to be around people.  He could not find peace in The Void.  From atop this precipice, he stared at mountains and horizons for 63 days.  The prominent peak to the North of his lookout was Mt. Hozomeen.  “O Hozomeen!” he would constantly exclaim.  It did not dream, it did not sleep, it did not move.  I wonder if this scared him.

I can’t help but draw parallels in my own life.  I’m a mess.  I’m freshly divorced.  I constantly seek adventure.  I search for purpose and meaning in it all.  And I gave it all up in pursuit of this dream - dogs, house, white picket fence, marriage, stable career - gone. 

And it scares me.

I’ve immersed myself into Kerouac’s life.  I’ve poured through his books - from On the Road where he epitomizes and romanticizes the Beatnik life, to Dharma Bums and Desolation Angels where his philosophies become reinforced and refined, to Big Sur where his misanthropic and cynical views combined with alcoholism and depression led him to question the very life he lived and the movement he led.

As I write this, I sit in a steeply discounted rented bedroom of a close friend.  My only worldly belongings are found in this small 10x10’ room.  I have just enough money for gas and ramen (and even then I’ll have to transfer $50 out of savings).  But off I go - in search of meaning - to see if I can find what Kerouac found on that mountain.

Given how he died, a part of me hopes that I don’t.

But, given how he lived, a part of me hopes that I do.

So off I go.

_______________________________________________

15 July 2017

I waited a couple weeks to reflect on the experience before drafting my report.  I had countless thoughts throughout the ordeal.  Hours on the trail alone lends itself to that type of introspection and reflection - when we’re alone with our demons and fears.  But I wanted to find that congruent and cohesive line, that tangent between physical pain, emotional awareness, and metaphysical being. 

61 hours and 8 minutes later, I think I found it.

I stepped off from the East Bank trailhead at 5:45 a.m. on 1 July with approximately 15 pounds of gear, food, and water on my back.  Although I have been an ultrarunner for nearly five years, I had only fastpacked four times before this, with no more than 25K at a time.  This was very new to me.

The first 25K to Lightening Creek campground went swimmingly.  The trail meandered through quiet forests just inland from Ross Lake, then skirted along the lake’s edge for a few miles while offering a peek of the sights to come.  I savored the new experience, basked in the excitement of the journey ahead, and marveled at my body’s abilities.  I was beyond ecstatic.  I waxed poetic about the trail, the trees, the wildflowers, and the smells.  I was a modern-day explorer.  I ran the majority of it at a 50-mile pace, and uncertain of my food situation, decided to only eat every two hours vice every one while also neglecting to hydrate as the pontificating and marveling continued. 

Mistake.

The sun crested the eastern mountains and the mid-day heat began to amplify just before I made the climb up Desolation Peak - 5,000 feet over 5 miles.  I pushed hard.  Focused on a last-minute goal of a two-day fastpack, or even a one-day/30-hour straight-through attempt, I pushed. 

Two miles up, I crashed.  It began as stopping for a moment’s rest every 100 feet, but quickly devolved into me splayed out in the middle of the narrow singletrack while hikers stepped over me as I incoherently mumbled, “I’m okay.  Thank you.”  I had hit the Bermuda triangle of ultrarunner death – too hard, too fast, and not enough fuel.  On top of this, I was also dehydrated and had run out of water.  This was a new dimension.  This had four sides. 

I summited, signed the summit register, sent a Spot message with my location, chatted with the fire lookout and another ultrarunner out on a training run, ate some trail mix, and seemingly revived, sped off down the mountain renewed in my decision to push hard.  I stopped at a spring just one mile down from the summit (that I had passed on the way up without even acknowledging it), refilled my bladder, reconnected with the ultrarunner from the summit, and then ran with her down the mountain.  She was fast.  I kept thinking that fact to myself, but was enjoying her company and welcomed the respite from silence.  The moment we hit the flat trail at the bottom of the summit, I realized I couldn’t maintain.  She quickly pulled ahead, I quickly passed my good-byes, and then I quickly splayed out again on the middle of trail.  Ten minutes later I was moving again.  I reached the end of the Desolation Peak trail, then turned left toward Canada, determined to make it 15 more miles to the border and five more miles back to Willow Lake for a few hours rest.  The trail began to climb steeply.  Every 20 feet I stopped for a few seconds to catch my breath.  Every 75-100 feet, I stopped for a few minutes.  I was crashing again.  My body was telling me no.  My body was giving in.  I had never felt this bad before.  My legs were shaking, I could barely catch my breath, my heartbeat refused to slow down, and my mind was beyond foggy.  I finally reached my max.  I had never been here before.  Although my mind was telling me I could, my body was telling me to simply go fuck myself.  The realization hit me - I could not go on.  Wow.  I had never failed at any physical pursuit in my life.  And, as this realization deepened, I also recognized that I had never failed at any academic or occupational pursuit also.  I had never failed at something I attempted.  I had never failed. 

But I was right now.  And it struck me hard.  I cried.

As I slowly hiked back down to Lightening Creek campground, I began to accept this limitation.  But this wasn’t a limitation – this was failure.  That finality continued to circulate in my thoughts.  I cried all the way down.   

I began to come to terms with it that night.  As I explored it, I couldn’t help but to question why, in fact, this was my first failure.  I am 39 years old and this was the first time I failed.  What exactly does that mean?   Key to this acceptance was figuring out this why – it simply meant that I wasn’t taking enough risks.  That was it.  I had not failed because I had not risked enough.  Everything I had ever attempted in life was grounded in a high degree of certainty and over-preparation - physical endeavors, jobs, relationships, college, everything.  I over-prepared for every distance or physical challenge.  I spent my entire life institutionalized in the United States Navy with never a concern for financial stability.  I chose a safe marriage that adequately provided for my emotional and physical needs.  I earned an MBA for its high return on investment and marketability. 

But, I’ve never really reached.  All of my choices were safe bets.  Perhaps they weren’t even what I really wanted.

This was a first.

I came to terms with this failure and slept soundly.  The next morning I awoke and happily thought about the quick hike home and a weekend of Netflix binging.  I took my time having breakfast and made my way to the fork just outside the campground.  I stood there for five minutes.  To the right was 5 hours and 15 miles back to the trailhead.  To the right was safety.  To the left was 2 days and 60 miles.  To the left was uncertainty.

Something hit me.  And all of sudden, I turned left.

I started laughing as I crossed the suspension bridge across Lightening Creek.  I said aloud to myself, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”  I quickly moved up the incline that just hours before had completely destroyed me.  After one mile, the trail crested.  I started weeping again.  I continued on.

The next two days flew by.  I slowed my pace, stopped for breaks periodically, ate hourly, hydrated continuously, went for swims over lunch and enjoyed the trail.  I sang.  I talked.  I smiled.  I reverted to my original plan – 50K per day.  On day two I made it up to the Canadian border and back to Lightening Creek; on day three I summited Desolation Peak once more and steadily made my way back to the trailhead.  61 hours and 8 minutes had elapsed.  I took the token selfie, threw my pack in the car, and drove home.

I didn’t fail.  Not this time anyways.  But I came through this ordeal, this mind/body challenge, with a new understanding of risk - namely my crippling fear of it.  That fear has held me back my entire life.  Jack Kerouac is one of my favorite authors.  Although his writings can be one long stream of consciousness at times and wildly esoteric at others, his novels are largely autobiographical and based on his own adventures.   Although he may not have found what he was looking for throughout his years, and his restlessness and lifestyle choices may have contributed to his premature death, the one overarching theme throughout his writings is risk.  He seized every moment and every pleasure he could.  He chose a life of continuous searching.  He risked and he lived life.  I hope to do the same.    

On summiting Desolation Peak my second time, I made the following entry in the summit register:

“I am no longer a slave to fear.”

That was it.  I found it.

 

Camino de Santiago post (written 10/18/2016)

Day 11: Astorga to Rabanal del Camino


It was an easy Sunday on the Camino. After a brutal 32 km slog yesterday, today’s 22 km walk was a welcome respite. Combined with a hotel stay last night, two baths, a later than usual start, and an intentionally slower pace, it made for a relaxing day of walking.


Tomorrow morning we visit the Cruz de Ferro (Iron Cross). Pilgrims leave a rock (or other momento) at its base. For many, the signifies their pain, suffering, and journey thus far. I pulled my rock out of my bag this morning and turned it over in my hand. I immediately started sobbing. I did that for quite some time in the privacy of my hotel room.


I carried the rock in my pocket today, and for a while I carried it in my hand while reflecting on my path thus far, along with all the pain and suffering I’ve seen, inflicted, or have had inflicted upon me. I tried to pour every bit of it into that little rock. And I cried a lot. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I looked up. The clouds were moving briskly across the sky, and the morning sun was bouncing off them in a manner in which I have rarely seen.


And then it hit – trust in God. Bring your troubles to Him. Allow Him to help us with our burdens.


Although I am a devout Christian, I still feel like I’ve been dealing with this pain and suffering nearly all of my own for the last 39 years. Most of the time I get too caught up in dealing with problems on my own that I don’t ask for His help. And I always felt my problems were too trivial and too minor to ask for His guidance and support.


I was wrong.


I hope to leave this little rock behind and start anew with Him. I hope to shake the yoke of these burdens and move forward in the wisdom of three little words.


Trust in God.

Camino de Santiago post (written 10/13/2016)

Day 6: Terradillos de los Templarios to Calzadillas de los Hermanillos


I am reminded of the peace and purpose of the Camino as I sit in this small village today. And I have to write about it. I was originally planning another entry about the ugliness and monotony of the senda, but was instantly taken by the village. I need to capture this moment.


After staying in quite a few larger towns and private albergues so far, I was a bit disappointed when I arrived at my destination today. As I walked into the village, I quickly turned up my nose at the municipal albergue as I passed it, and went in search of greener pastures, or simply, more posh albergues.


As I wandered the streets, I asked a small shop owner the location of a private albergue noted in my book. As he saw my confusion while explaining in rapid Spanish, he promptly shut up his shop and walked me to it.


While we were walking, I commented how it was a peaceful town, and he quickly agreed – “muy tranquillo”, with an emphasis on “muy”. When I asked him how long he lived here, his reply was, “all my life.”


We arrived a few minutes later and he showed me the albergue. I thanked him and he returned to his shop. As I checked into the place, the owner’s first question was – “are you tired?” Not an oft-recited line of amenities, hours, and prices, but a genuine question of my welfare. That struck me.


Unfortunately, the private albergue only had shared rooms with prices upwards of €15. I politely thanked her, then slinked to the municipal one across the street.


It was bare-bones – it didn’t offer food or alcohol, it lacked an outside sitting area, it lacked any comfortable chairs, and had a simple and spartan arrangement of only the necessities.


I was, in the least, slightly disappointed.


Then I remembered what that last lady asked me – am I tired? With that, I was quickly reminded of the albergue’s purpose. The albergue is not there to offer all the comforts of home with the added convenience of a bar or restaurant. It’s not there as a cheap hotel. It’s not there as a party place. It’s there for the pilgrim to shower, wash clothes, and sleep. With the Camino exploding in popularity and entrepreneurship following suit and fueling competition along The Way, that’s an easy thing to forget.


I did when I came to do. I showered, washed clothes, and laid out my bedding for the night. Then, instead of sitting at the albergue and drinking beer while surfing Wi-Fi, I went for a walk.


As I passed through the village, I saw old men and women talking while standing on the curbs just outside their homes; I saw a young couple walking with their newborn and be greeted excitedly by friends and family; I saw old men sitting on park benches and chatting their siesta time away. I went back to visit that shop owner and buy a tube of toothpaste. As I was just outside the store, a young lady (likely his family) exclaimed – “go to the store!” He was happy to see me, grateful for my purchase, and asked me to tell my fellow pilgrims of his shop.


He’s just trying to make a living. And this is a poor village. It’s evident everywhere. But there’s a peace and closeness here I can’t describe. It pervades this place.


I now sit outside a 13th-century church and in an adjoining park and listen to the multitudes of birds both in the trees and in the steeple. The church and park are also worn down – there are cracks in the cement, the center fountain is missing a piece of it, and the church has unpatched and unbricked holes in the walls.


But there is certainly peace and love here. I feel it.


Buen Camino.

Camino de Santiago post (written 10/10/2016)

Day 3: Castrojerez to Fromista


In 2014, I walked the Camino from St Jean to Burgos with my wife. Two years later with that nearly 16-year marriage ended, I find myself on the Camino in a previously and unthought of state – alone.


And that scared me.


Two years ago, I had a Camino partner – someone who shared the walk, helped negotiate the obstacles, and (as she was a verbose extrovert) someone to help my introverted self through the multitudes of conversations.


I have now been on the Camino three days. This morning I walked into the heart of the Meseta in the province of Palencia. It is vast. It stretches as far as the eye can see. And it makes you feel small.


However, as I descended a plateau early this morning with no one in sight and only the vastness ahead and behind me, the one thing I did not feel was alone.


I reflected on this all day. In the three short days I’ve been out here, I have been anything but alone. I instantly bonded with a Canadian pilgrim at the airport (and subsequently changed my plans to catch a train with him to Burgos), had a communal dinner and countless conversations my first night in an albergue, had a heartfelt conversation over an afternoon and dinner with a gentleman who recently lost his husband, and instantly bonded with many others in the briefest of meetings.


There is certainly plenty of time out here for those peaceful, thoughtful, and contemplative moments all of us seek. But there is also a remarkable and powerful bond that connects us to all pilgrims on


The Way. I am not scared. I am happy. I am a pilgrim.

Why? (written 10/12/2014)

While discussing our upcoming Camino with friends over dinner last night, the question came up – Why? Why are you doing this? I would like to think I deferred the initial response to my wife out of politeness, but in reality it was because I couldn’t answer the question. And, it turns out neither could she. We just stood there, open mouthed and with confused eyes, and nothing really came out. We mumbled something to the lines of “a little bit of everything”, and quickly moved on to the next conversation topic.


The question haunts me. It’s 5 a.m. the morning after that dinner, and I’ve been awake for the last two hours pondering this question and that specific social interaction. Thoughts have been rushing around in my mind for these last couple contemplative hours, and I knew that if I wished to make sense of it, I had to write it down. So begins my Camino Journal.


It’s a very logical beginning to this journal. I’d like to think it’s serendipitous. I hope to think it’s inspired by Him.


Him. God. Heavenly father. Creator of heaven and earth.


The Camino de Santiago de Compostela, commonly referred to as Camino de Santiago, or more commonly, The Camino, is The Way of St James. It is an ancient pilgrimage route that has been traveled by pilgrims (peregrinos in Spanish) since the middle ages. It is comprised of 12 different major routes, but all routes and roads ultimately terminate in Santiago de Compostela, a city on the Western edge of Spain in which it is believed that the remains of St James reside. Pilgrims walked this path as penance and forgiveness of sins. Stamps from churches and hostels (albergues) are collected on the pilgrim’s passport (credencial). Upon arrival in Santiago, this credencial is presented to church officials, and if the stamps prove you walked at least the last 100 kilometers, you are issued a Compostela, a certificate of accomplishment. Penance is considered paid. Forgiveness is granted.


In light of the Camino’s original and primary purpose, to walk this path for reasons other than those of piety sounds wrong. It sounds fake. To walk this holy path to see the Spanish countryside, to have a cheap European vacation, and to challenge ourselves physically seems borderline sacrilegious. I guess that’s why the question haunts me. Perhaps that’s why I sit here typing this out hours before dawn. There is no “perhaps”. That’s exactly why. I am not walking this for purely religious reasons. I am not Catholic. I do not believe in the forgiveness of sins through certain church-sanctioned acts. But, I know I’m not just walking it for the pure enjoyment of the experience.


The thing is: I don’t know why I’m walking the Camino. I would like to have a perfectly cultivated response to this seemingly simple question of “Why?” because that’s what I do. I perfectly cultivate responses. Image. Reputation. We all do it to one extent or another. But, I’m a master at it. I am a master at being cultivated. “Fake” may be a bit harsh. But, I am certainly a master at being deliberate.


What I do know is that I hope. I hope to find the reasons behind this long walk, this journey, this pilgrimage. I hope to be less cultivated and deliberate. I hope to be closer to Him. I hope.


My Camino begins.

Cessation of Efforts -- written 4/9/2010

“Time of death: 1745.”

I can’t believe I said those words today. I cancelled the MEDEVAC, I stopped resuscitation, and I ceased all efforts to save a one year-old girl who girl who drowned in a nearby canal.

She had been brought in merely 15 minutes prior to my statement. From the moment I saw the Executive Officer doing CPR on her at the front gate, I knew this was going to be a futile effort. We ran into the Aid Station, and I instinctively placed a stethoscope to her chest to listen for a heartbeat. There was none. We began CPR. Despite the gravity of it all, it was calm. There was little conversation and no confusion – just work. Then acceptance. Although the delivered CPR was effective as noted by the strong brachial pulse and the readings on the pulse oximeter, her pupils were fixed and dilated and she showed no signs of resuscitation. Ceasing our efforts was one of the hardest things I had ever done.

It didn’t hit me until the end. One of the Corpsmen had pulled out a wool blanket and had set it beside her. The village elder and the girl’s uncle were in the Aid Station, and when I told them we had done everything we could and that I was sorry, they readily understood. They informed us through the interpreter that they “figured she had died”. I quickly recognized this ready acceptance from my previous deployments. The Arabic term for this fatalistic acknowledgment is “Inshalla” – God willing. I expressed my apologies again, and then held her up as a Corpsman placed the blanket on the stretcher. I didn’t want to lift her. I didn’t want to hold her. A part of me wanted to tell another Corpsman to do it. But I couldn’t. This was my responsibility. I placed her down onto it, but was not satisfied with her being near the edge of the blanket. I wanted her in the middle. I had to pick her up again. As I lifted her lifeless body, she released an agonal breath. The final air was escaping her lungs. I placed her in the blanket, wrapped her up, and allowed the village elder to take her. We then walked back to the front gate.

Seeing the elder walk with this little girl wrapped up in a blanket, it started to hit me. It seemed so surreal. This was my nightmare. This was my fear. There was a group of locals at the front gate, and after the elder explained to the father what we had done, the Executive Officer pointed me out and said, “Our Doctor did everything he could”. I looked at the little girl’s father. And, as the tears started to well up in my eyes, I told him I was sorry. It had hit me. I think he could see my pain, and a part of me hoped that he could. I had tried. I had failed. Although we did our best, it was not to be. After a few short seconds, I had to leave.

There was a small box of a shelter fifty feet away from the front gate. I knew I couldn’t go back to the Aid Station right now. I stepped inside and within seconds, I began to cry. The wave had finally crashed. Three minutes later, the Executive Officer saw me in the shelter. He shook my hand, gave me a hug, and told me I did everything I could. He walked away, and I released again with a renewed surge of tears and emotions.

It was not to be. As I sit here and go through the incident in my mind, I can’t help but think of the eight year-old girl we revived just a month ago. She had been near death and in respiratory arrest when she arrived, and by the time the MEDEVAC helicopter arrived, she was crying. That was a good day. We saved her. She didn’t die. However this one-year old girl today was not to be. There was nothing we could do. Inshalla.

Despite this acceptance, I will still cry. Despite my understanding of her fatal injury, I will still see her face in my dreams. Despite reassurances from others and myself, I will still think of her for years to come.

The Countdown (written 10/27/2009)

We’ve been contemplating this deployment for quite some time now. For me, this is the beginning of the inevitable deployment that was only a matter of time. And now it’s here.

We are all strewn about this large transient tent. There’s barely one foot of space between our rickety cots, and packs and seabags are crammed around our respective areas in any available space. Despite this complete lack of privacy and personal space, I find it eerily comfortable. That may just be the Polyanna in me, but it bears a certain degree of truth. This shouldn’t be comfortable (or comforting for that manner), but it is. I’m not sure if that is something that attracts me to this life, or it is simply something I have grown accustomed to over the years. Either way, we’re here. Period. Live it and love it, or live it and hate it. Maintaining one’s sanity is far easier if you abide by the former rather than the latter.

We are headed to combat. No one can escape that fact, and I feel as if this preoccupies the minds of the Sailors and Marines around me in this tent at this very minute. Amidst the gear, weapons and cots, and just under the din of the countless conversations being held at this very moment, it’s palpable. And the leadership is recognizing this. Directly following a string of lectures yesterday that covered a variety of topics from operational security to first aid, I overheard a Platoon Sergeant reassuring and refocusing his men to the pending tasks at hand. He urged them not to focus on the current danger and the casualties being inflicted; he reassured them that they would be okay. He certainly knew the pulse of his men, and I hope that his confidence and reassurance provided them with some sort of solace.

I will close this entry with the concession that I have written about this preoccupation with a pending combat deployment before. And, before I wrote it down last time, it was certainly thought of the many times before that. But each time it’s different, and each time it’s the same. This time however, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with the difference in this one – this deployment. I have waited my entire career for a deployment like this – a true combat deployment with a Rifle Company to a very hot area of operations. I truly hope that my (our) preoccupation is all for naught.

More to certainly follow.

I Couldn't Save Him

[The following is a piece I wrote while deployed with an Infantry Battalion to Iraq. One of the most trying experiences of my life, writing this was highly therapuetic.]


“I couldn’t save him.”

These are the words I had to say out loud to my wife a couple weeks ago. After a week of agonizing soul searching, I finally found the one thing that bothered me the most. The words suddenly came to me as I was saying them, and it was a moment of pure elation to finally say that out loud. For a brief phone call, I had dropped my guard and let it out. This bothered me. This was on my mind. This caused me pain.

It happened while we were out on (yet another) operation performing reconnaissance and interdiction operations across an area highly suspected of being used as a staging point and transit area for insurgents and oil smugglers. The previous operations had all been smooth – we had rounded up a handful of oil smugglers, a few possible insurgents, and had discovered a decent amount of weapon caches. It was just another operation. On one routine morning around 0700, we were settling down to our breakfasts, falling back asleep or just getting into a book while the platoons were heading out for their operations. We heard the words “Contact, Contact, Contact” frantically spewing across the radio waves. Within minutes we had loaded up into our vehicles and were on our way to the platoon’s position. Mere minutes thereafter we arrived at the scene, and the First Sergeant turned back to the Senior Line Corpsman and me and said “3 Urgent Surgicals”. I remember these words as if they were just said to me today. I can still see his three fingers in the air. I can still see his face. I paused for a brief second as it hit me, then dismounted the vehicle with our med bags in tow.

I came upon the most critical Marine first. He was barely conscious, had a gunshot wound to his left upper and inner chest, and another to his left upper and inner arm. His upper left arm had swollen up to twice its regular size due to massive internal bleeding, his respirations were barely distinguishable, and his general appearance was something I’ve never seen before. I’ll never forget that look on his face. For those first few seconds, I honestly could not believe this was happening. As a last ditch effort to control the bleeding in his upper arm, I had a Corpsman place a tourniquet, knowing full well that it wouldn’t control it due to the large shoulder joint it had to be placed over. I couldn’t use Quick Clot, as there was very little bleeding outside the wound. It was all internal and inaccessible. I had them place a breathing tube, and had to move on to the two other patients while they tended to him.

The remaining two casualties were close together, with the platoon Corpsman working on one while guiding his Staff Sergeant and another Marine as they tended to the other one. One had a gunshot wound to his lower abdomen with what appeared to be exposed intestines and minimal bleeding. As I had the Staff Sergeant quickly expose the wound, I only had a brief moment to look at it before they quickly resecured the dressing. Later I found out that it was actually his scrotum and testicles that had been shot, but they had been pulled up onto his abdomen as a result of the applied dressing. Nonetheless, it was a fairly minimal wound, and in light of the severity of the other casualties, my concern was also minimal. One foot away was the platoon Corpsman, Hospitalman [deleted name], working on a Marine who had been shot through the left side of his neck, with an exit wound on his right middle back. Here was another critical Marine. HN [deleted name] had bandaged him up exceptionally well, but due to the course of the bullet and location of the wounds, I was extremely concerned about his prognosis. Despite the gravity of his wounds, he was remarkably stable. It was the Corpsman that was having problems. He was crying. He kept looking over at the Marine teetering on the verge of death, and the guilt of having to move onto the other injured Marines was too much for him at this time. I told him he did everything he could, and when my couple comforting sentences fell seemingly on deaf ears, I hastily kissed him on the top of his head, and told him he was doing everything right.

I rushed back over the most critical casualty. He was almost gone. I placed both my hands on his chest to assess for a punctured lung. Seconds passed as I waited for one side to rise and the other to stay flat (a tell-tale sign of a punctured lung). Nothing. His respirations were too infrequent and lacked enough depth to accurately determine this life-threatening condition. I tried it one more time, as I silently prayed to God. Again, nothing. As he had been shot into his left chest, I had a Corpsman place a needle into his lung area to relieve any trapped air. I placed my cheek over the hub of the needle and waited for a rush of air. Nothing. I placed another needle into his chest at a different location, hoping that the lack of muscle overlying this second area would yield an adequate penetration of the lung cavity, and relieve the potentially trapped air. Helplessness at a level I have never experienced before suddenly hit me as no air rushed up to meet my cheek, and he stopped moving seconds later. For 15-20 seconds, I checked for a pulse. The enormity of it all weighed heavily on me, and I prayed to God that I did the right thing. After reluctantly determining that there was no pulse, I directed CPR to begin. They began. The Casualty Evacuation helicopters did not show up for another 40 minutes; during this entire length of time, the Corpsmen and Marines working on their fallen comrade did not pause whatsoever. I knew it was a futile effort. I didn’t order it to be done to save him. I ordered it for the benefit of the watching Marines. We wouldn’t give up, no matter what.

Damn, this is tough to deal with. I never thought it would be this hard. I’m not sure what’s affecting me right now – is it just the funk of being here for 6 months, or is it deeper than that? If it is the loss of a Marine that’s on my mind, I’m afraid. I’m afraid it will continue when I get home, and life will lose the tasteful flavor that it has always held for me. I’ve treated too many patients with depression and PTSD, and I’ve seen how desolate and painstaking their lives have been. God, I hope not.

I’m afraid for my happiness. I’m afraid for the happiness of those around me.

Although exceptionally trying, I’m hoping this experience will further develop me into a better leader, Sailor, and man. I’m hoping that I can continue to enjoy life and the company of friends and loved ones. The above may be my fear, but this is my hope.