The Broken Soldier

… mother fucker throws rank at me for some stupid shit, I’m going to put him through a wall.

I’m having a bad pain day.  A 9 or so out of 10.  So bad I had to go to the emergency room.  The Army’s idea of pain management, for me anyway, is Mobic (an anti-inflammatory) and Gabapentin.  Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, it’s insufficient (big surprise, I know).  No narcotics, not even for breakthrough pain.  The ER shot me up with Toradol and Dilaudid.  I’m still in a lot of pain, but if I’m really still I can convince myself I’m too high to care.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m in severe pain I tend not to stand on ceremony.  It all hangs out.  I was trying to make myself comfortable in the extremely uncomfortable ER seats.  Those around me, who clearly fancy themselves as belt-fed hard chargers, kept looking at me.  My head is recently shaved, and I’m in PT gear.  I suspect they mistook me for a boot - as Knox is a basic training base.  That is, until I asked them what their fucking problem was.

Then I got back to the barracks.  I’m in pain and high as a kite.  Almost falling down and passing out.  I have trouble walking most of the time, but it was particularly hard, due to pain and drugs, today.  My hands were full with the PT jacket, my meds and personal effects.  As I made my way to my room, I passed two people.  I did not recognize either of them as I couldn’t see straight.  One of them stopped me, making some smart ass comment about not saluting.  What the fuck?  Hands full.  Hobbling on a cane.  Clearly drugged out of my mind.  Customs and courtesies are fine, but there’s a time to turn that shit off.  That situation is a good example.

And it’s this lack of common sense in applying rules, and of recognition when it’s appropriate to get in someone’s ass about a perceived breach of protocol, among many other things, that makes me glad I’ll soon be using my uniforms as kindling in a post-discharge bond fire.