Work Text:
It was a slow day…
Working as a reporter for a small town daily newspaper has its perks. I know a lot of people, write what sells, and spend my time in front of a computer terminal hacking away lines of text to find the one word that sums up a thousand emotions. I get a call today from my publisher – the damn publisher! – who tells me I’m going to follow around soldiers fighting insurgents overseas. Some kind of government incentive program. I’m excited – and scared. My wife’s pissed. No sex. No sleep. For weeks. Won’t be easy.
I keep telling her today is always different from yesterday. And tomorrow will hold even more treasures to uncover. So why am I constantly telling the butterflies in my stomach to hold tight formation? Why does the bee-buzzing in my head not seem to go away? It’s as if the butterflies are trying to tell me something – something important. And those damned bees, too. Curse me for not being able to speak Insect, but I’ve already told my publisher I would go. I leave on Sunday.
And don’t cry, baby…
I’m on a plane to the war zone. Seems safe up here with the clouds below me, like a fluffy cotton blanket. Of course, they never tell you all the millions of things that could go wrong as you board this oversized speeding bullet. Like 9-11 and Lockerbie. I guess it doesn’t help that I’m flying American Airlines. Would another airline have been better? I think about the people that died. I think about not wanting to die. Then, I look at the clouds and close my eyes. Sleep takes over – or is it my motion sickness pills?
There was a bright light…
First day in the war zone, and the markets bustle as if there is no war. The only sign of that is the way the people move, like chickens being chased by a fox. Money still flows – who knows how long that will last. Looks like what I’ve seen of old World War II photographs. I’m walking with my Nikon camera and two rolls of undeveloped film. I’ve opted to wear the body armor provided by my publisher. I miss my wife. Two bicyclists scurry past. A woman pushes a pram.
Then Hell finds her – finds all of us. My eyes are blinded. My arm is wet. I try to move and cannot. I’m jerked away from the rabble around me, lots of foreign babble and confused noises, half of which I cannot hear. My eyesight returns slowly. The baby carriage is gone. Windows are blown out. Glass, concrete, fire, bodies. I think I’m in one of my daydreams. Only it’s worse than my daydreams. My camera is gone; my writing arm is numb. I think I am dead, realizing how blessed I am to be alive. I want to help, me the helpless.
Medicine is magical…
I’m in a hospital bed. How long have I been here? A day? Two days? I’m cold. I’m naked – or at least not fully covered up, despite the blanket. Doctor says in limited English that I’ll lose my arm. My writing arm. My publisher hasn’t been contacted -- yet. Thousands cry around me – cry for their sons, their daughters, their lovers, their lives. I’m not sure why I smile as I hear them. I’m not sure why I rejoice for them in their sorrow. Maybe it’s a reaction to the utter hopelessness I feel. Maybe it’s the pain medicine. Maybe it’s both.
This is the long distance call…
My publisher knows. So does my wife. She’s pissed. When I try to joke that the important stuff still works, she hangs up on me. I’m not surprised, but disappointed. In her. In myself. My face is red with shame, with anger.
My arm’s coming off today. I wonder if the other arm will wave goodbye. Somehow I doubt it. They tell me they are going to fit a prosthetic for me sometime in a month. Maybe they’ll do that when I’m back home. They say that the arm will work just like a real one – that it can be linked to my existing nerves. They tell me it will look like a real hand, not like the hook Uncle Kenny had. I dream a little as I wait. I dream of having a bionic arm, imagine how it will feel, imagine how it will look.
These are the days of miracle and wonder…
I’m not sure how long it’s been since the accident. I don’t keep track. I don’t remember. Don’t want to remember. Get reminded every time I see my arm. Get reminded every time I touch my keyboard. Get reminded every night. Every day. It’s hard as hell to push an elephant out of your ass. So, I just close my eyes and do what I have to do. As it is, my wife does enough wincing for the two of us.
I’m back home cleaning the house, doing the dishes, raking the leaves, writing stories for the newspaper. My wife is pissed. I’m not surprised. She says she wants me to be the breadwinner. I’m not sure if I will...yet. So much about her is strong. She needs to feel that strength, even if she won’t admit it.