Separate Lives Pt. 02

"From what they tell me," he said conversationally, "you smacked into something hard and got knocked out. But it looks like that's going to be okay. The skull doesn't appear to have been fractured and it doesn't look like you suffered more than a light concussion. You don't seem to have any loss of memory, and your pupils are equal and reactive so I think the head injury is the least of your worries."

I accepted what he said. I sure didn't feel any different than I had before the firefight...well, except for that headache, that is. It was fading a little. The intensity was already noticeably lessening.

"And I don't think your shoulder wound is going to be a big deal either," he said confidently. It was easy for him to say that. It wasn't his shoulder. I bet his wasn't hurting even the tiniest little bit.

"Ungh!" I grunted when I tried to move. The younger of the two, what I took to be nurses, wiped away the sweat that had suddenly popped out on my forehead.

"We can give you something for the pain," the doctor said. He made a couple of entries on some papers on a clipboard at the end of my bed.

He turned and left, taking the older woman with him. He was talking a mile a minute to her, using words I didn't understand and quickly lost interest in. The young nurse, a First Lieutenant, stayed behind to bathe my face with cool water. When I asked, she let me use the bed controls to slowly raise my chest and head higher. I've hated to lay flat on my back since I was a boy and felt a lot better reclining instead.

When the matronly older woman came back, she put a needle into some gadget on the tube they had stuck in my right forearm and a few minutes later, the level of pain dropped away fast. It also put me back to sleep.

********

Two weeks later, I was "ambulatory" in the jargon the Army Medical folks use and more than a little restless. The shoulder was healing well and they already had me doing some really light, slow movements to make sure the knitting muscles would be flexible when they mended. I found a computer terminal they would let me use. I was able to access my Yahoo account and got off some emails to Karen and Melissa letting them know I was okay.

My inbox was full of anxious inquiries from both of the women in my life—Karen and Melissa—and, surprisingly, from a lot of folks back at corporate headquarters. I emailed my boss and my secretary back in Denver and asked them to spread the word that I was fine and getting better fast. I said to tell everyone that I only could use my right arm for now and typing with one hand was really slow. I'd answer all the emails as I could, but it would be a while.

The guys from the Marine Platoon came by yesterday. They'd been rotated back to a base camp for some R&R before going back out on another assignment. I had no idea what was going on when the young nurse rolled me and my wheelchair—I didn't need it, didn't want it, but it was "regulations" she said—into the hospital dayroom.

A few minutes later the double outside doors crashed open and the whole Marine platoon, all 46 of them, marched inside. They halted, forming a double rank around three sides of the room, did a facing movement into the center toward me and stood at attention. The Lieutenant commanding them marched up to a point three paces in front of me and saluted. I learned a bit later the two officers flanking him were his company and battalion commanders. The nurse "helped" me stand up. I felt foolish in my faded blue hospital pajamas and ratty old robe, but no one paid any attention.

The Lieutenant brought everyone to attention and then shouted a command to give me a hand salute, though I guessed it wasn't strictly kosher. Military personnel don't salute civilians but they did it anyway. After putting his men at parade rest, the Lieutenant read a thoroughly unofficial "award citation" off a piece of paper that looked kind of like parchment.

Then they presented me with a large, circular hunk of metal from the base of an artillery shell and burnished to a soft brown color. It was, the citation said, to stand in lieu of a "Bronze Star" for bravery in the incident occurring at kilometer 137...etc., etc. The thing said my "quick reaction" (as opposed my memories of a panicked one) saved the lives of many Marines and civilian contractor personnel.

My face was scarlet by now and I was so choked up I couldn't talk. Finally, I got out a shaky-voiced thanks to the officers and men. I asked if I could shake the hand of everyone in the platoon and I positioned myself at the door. As they filed out, I shook every single hand and then followed them outside to mingle with them for the last time.

The next morning I was on a military Med Evac flight that went in to Landstuhl, Germany where I spent several days. Then I was put on a plane home. I knew the corporation was reimbursing the government for all the medical attention, but I think all those folks went a little above and beyond.

Everywhere I went, Marines kept coming up to me and engaging me in conversation, always referring to my "Bronze Star." I didn't know how complete strangers knew my face and name, much less any details of what I'd gone through "in country," as they kept saying. It was a revelation to me that military personnel have one of the fastest unofficial communication networks in the free world.

I loved the camaraderie of those dangerous men in the Marine Corps and wondered a time or two whether I'd missed my calling, but it was too late in my life to seriously consider a change now. It was time to go back to what I do best.

My "vacation" in Afghanistan, exhilarating as it had been, was over. My office in the Denver corporate complex was waiting for me when I got back to town. Except for a little mustiness, it was exactly the same as when I left it six months earlier.

********

The relationship between Karen and I didn't make it through the long separation. It's not that she was seeing anyone. In fact, she was a very lonely woman in many respects. She'd waited for me to get back and well on my way to healing before laying the sad news on me. We argued for a while but I saw she wasn't going to budge on her idea of the ghostly presence of Sherrie still being between us. I sensed something had happened to push her over the edge. I couldnot get her to tell me what, though. I swallowed my anger before I said some things that would have made our split a viciously bitter one. I didn't agree with her but I had to accept that she most emphatically felt that way.

I didn't like it but, in a way, I knew she was right about breaking up. But she was right for the wrong reasons. The thing was, we'd been together for a long time and, while I'd thought of asking her to marry me, I'd never quite done it. We parted as friends, I guess—as much as two former lovers can be, anyway.

What brought everything home to me was how quickly I got back on an even keel. Two weeks after Karen and I split up, I was dating a woman who worked on the third floor of our building and enjoying it immensely. There was never going to be anything serious between us, but it was fun.

Two months after I got home, I overheard two guys talking. One was the executive assistant to the Chief Financial Officer and the other a guy who ran a section in the Human Resources office. I, it seemed, wasn't going to be here very much longer. The CEO had mentioned my name had been proposed for another position and he was just about ready to announce the move. The two men I inadvertently eavesdropped on shouldn't have been talking about it, but even in the executive washroom, people don't always check under the stall doors before they start gossiping.

A week later, I got the official word. I was going back to where I'd started from, but this time as Executive Vice President. I was intrigued by the proposal. It was somewhere between a promotion and a lateral move, but it had a lot of potential. The position I was holding down now was pretty much a dead end unless I was willing to wait seven or eight years for the two guys and one woman who were above me in the hierarchy to retire and get out of the way. I pondered my decision for a couple of days, but there were too many pluses to the position they were offering me. I took the job. Four years and a week or two after my divorce, I was going home.