The Broken Soldier

Got a call from Knox yesterday.  A doctor.  Of what he didn’t say, and frankly I don’t care.  We talked for a few minutes about what’s been going on for the last 15 months.  He seemed confused.  Though I’ve observed feigning confusion is a common tactic used by Army leadership.  Example, “What?  Soldiers need body armor and up-armored Hummers in a war zone?  More common sense rules of engagement?  Hospital rooms sans black mold?  Aduhhyyyyeee.”  But he promised that if surgery is what I need, the seeming consensus opinion of every fucking civilian doctor in Michigan, then surgery is what I’ll have.

We talked about my symptoms, the results of the many diagnostic batteries I’ve had and of the converging conclusions of each, and of standard treatment conventions.  At first he was standoffish and condescending.  He tried to test me, or perhaps more accurate, my understanding of this injury.  I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, metaphorically speaking.  Fhufhufhufhufhu.  He recognized, giving him some credit for being mildly observant, unusual for a government employee, people with my educational background teach neuroscience and human anatomy and physiology to people with his educational background.

He ended our discussion with a cautionary of the risks of surgery, and a promise to resolve this matter by today.  Wonder if Bruce’s email to Ireland Community’s commander, full of piss and virulence, threatening, not idly, to name her as top co-defendant in the writ had something to do with this ‘positive’ development.