Post by Moses on Feb 27, 2005 12:58:44 GMT -5
Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?
My daughter, Mariela, in the U.S. Army, was attacked, Dec. 18, in Kuwait. She was changing a tire on her truck with three other soldiers. A civilian vehicle from Kuwait ran over them on purpose and ran away. Two of the soldiers died; my daughter was transported to a hospital in Kuwait, then to one in Germany, the Landstuhl Medical Center, and is presently in a coma (since Dec. 18), in Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington, D.C. The last soldier has broken legs and has lost all the skin on his back, and is in a special hospital in Texas. ...
I am not a writer, what you will read is painful, because it was very painful for me to write it.
Just before Christmas, Mariela was transported from Kuwait to Landstuhl Medical Center in Germany. On Christmas day, Lisette, Jason (her husband), and I flew to Germany. We saw her there for the first time. It was not a pretty picture. As a matter of fact, I thought we were in the wrong room. Mariela was double her normal size. The swelling due to the accident and IV feeding made her look like an over-inflated balloon. She also had tubes and pipes all over her head, neck, and body. After a few minutes, my brain and eyes started to ignore all the instruments and tubes and I had to realize, even if I didn't like it, that this was my little girl in this bed.
Because of her very serious injury, the doctors decided to transport her ASAP to the U.S.
On Dec. 26 Mariela was scheduled to be transferred to the Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington, D.C. She was transported via Air Evac in a flying hospital (C141) from Germany to Washington, D.C. We were invited to fly with her. This was a new experience for us. Not the most beautiful experience.
Mariela was in this plane together with 50 kids (18-25 years) all injured from Iraq. Legs, arms, hands, fingers missing. Some like Mariela, nonresponsive. It was a nightmare, and this is the true side of this war, even if nobody wants to see it.
We arrived in Washington, D.C., at 2 a.m. I was talking to one of the injured soldiers sitting next to me in the plane, and I told him how strange it seemed to me that they landed this plane at 2 a.m. He told me that he had already been to Iraq four times and that this was the second time he had been Air Evacuated for injury, and that he knew the government of our country didn't want its citizens to see these injured soldiers. I was pretty upset by this statement. (Where was George Bush with his stupid smile, his vice president, their patriotism, and their big music? They were definitely not here!) Later, I checked this statement with other people and was told that the U.S. Air Force has to fly at night because they should not interfere with commercial air traffic. I buy this, but in the U.S. most citizens have 60 TV channels, and each of these channels shows the same image of George Bush, busy being man of the year, every 30 minutes. But none of these channels show our kids coming back from the war in pieces. Why is that?
Also, the pilot made a horrible statement. "I do this very same trip, Germany/Washington, D.C., three times every week."
Two big ambulances brought the soldiers to the hospital. Walter Reed Medical Center is huge. Of course, there were more injured. … This was a very unusual sight for us, coming from Switzerland, a country which has not been touched by war in 150 years.
One evening, in the hotel, I went to the bar downstairs for a beer. Next to me was a man about 70 years old. A veteran, typical clothing, black jacket with medals all over, and a military hat. He asked me if I was a soldier. I said, "No, my name is Emile and I am a father, and my daughter was injured in the war and is in this hospital." He said, "Thank you, Simon," and he kissed me. (For him there was no doubt that a guy with a French accent can only be called "Simon.") "I went to Vietnam and I lost half of my back. I am here because my son just came back from Iraq and lost both legs. I am so proud of my son and your daughter, Simon. I want to buy you a beer!"
I realized that I could never talk to this man about my hostility toward this government and this war. The last thing this guy wants to hear is that he and his son did all this for nothing.
"Simon, my son and your daughter did the most beautiful thing in this world, and this is why we are in such a great country!" he said and kissed me again.
That night I went back to our room pretty confused. I didn't know anymore what to think. This guy was somehow right: Mariela was happy in the U.S. Army. She had a job, responsibilities. The Army gave her a reason to live, to do something for other people and to feel needed. The U.S. Army gave Mariela something that we, her parents, did not. Whatever happens in the future, I will always remember the U.S. Army has been good to Mariela.
Lisette was sleeping, the TV was still on. I switched the TV off and went to the window to close the curtains. Looking through the window, I saw two big ambulances parked in front of the hospital. They are here on time. Like a clock. Right on time. And three times a week they bring 30-50 kids – or what is left of them.
I closed the curtains and went to the bathroom. I needed to throw up.
~ Emile Meylan
My daughter, Mariela, in the U.S. Army, was attacked, Dec. 18, in Kuwait. She was changing a tire on her truck with three other soldiers. A civilian vehicle from Kuwait ran over them on purpose and ran away. Two of the soldiers died; my daughter was transported to a hospital in Kuwait, then to one in Germany, the Landstuhl Medical Center, and is presently in a coma (since Dec. 18), in Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington, D.C. The last soldier has broken legs and has lost all the skin on his back, and is in a special hospital in Texas. ...
I am not a writer, what you will read is painful, because it was very painful for me to write it.
Just before Christmas, Mariela was transported from Kuwait to Landstuhl Medical Center in Germany. On Christmas day, Lisette, Jason (her husband), and I flew to Germany. We saw her there for the first time. It was not a pretty picture. As a matter of fact, I thought we were in the wrong room. Mariela was double her normal size. The swelling due to the accident and IV feeding made her look like an over-inflated balloon. She also had tubes and pipes all over her head, neck, and body. After a few minutes, my brain and eyes started to ignore all the instruments and tubes and I had to realize, even if I didn't like it, that this was my little girl in this bed.
Because of her very serious injury, the doctors decided to transport her ASAP to the U.S.
On Dec. 26 Mariela was scheduled to be transferred to the Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington, D.C. She was transported via Air Evac in a flying hospital (C141) from Germany to Washington, D.C. We were invited to fly with her. This was a new experience for us. Not the most beautiful experience.
Mariela was in this plane together with 50 kids (18-25 years) all injured from Iraq. Legs, arms, hands, fingers missing. Some like Mariela, nonresponsive. It was a nightmare, and this is the true side of this war, even if nobody wants to see it.
We arrived in Washington, D.C., at 2 a.m. I was talking to one of the injured soldiers sitting next to me in the plane, and I told him how strange it seemed to me that they landed this plane at 2 a.m. He told me that he had already been to Iraq four times and that this was the second time he had been Air Evacuated for injury, and that he knew the government of our country didn't want its citizens to see these injured soldiers. I was pretty upset by this statement. (Where was George Bush with his stupid smile, his vice president, their patriotism, and their big music? They were definitely not here!) Later, I checked this statement with other people and was told that the U.S. Air Force has to fly at night because they should not interfere with commercial air traffic. I buy this, but in the U.S. most citizens have 60 TV channels, and each of these channels shows the same image of George Bush, busy being man of the year, every 30 minutes. But none of these channels show our kids coming back from the war in pieces. Why is that?
Also, the pilot made a horrible statement. "I do this very same trip, Germany/Washington, D.C., three times every week."
Two big ambulances brought the soldiers to the hospital. Walter Reed Medical Center is huge. Of course, there were more injured. … This was a very unusual sight for us, coming from Switzerland, a country which has not been touched by war in 150 years.
One evening, in the hotel, I went to the bar downstairs for a beer. Next to me was a man about 70 years old. A veteran, typical clothing, black jacket with medals all over, and a military hat. He asked me if I was a soldier. I said, "No, my name is Emile and I am a father, and my daughter was injured in the war and is in this hospital." He said, "Thank you, Simon," and he kissed me. (For him there was no doubt that a guy with a French accent can only be called "Simon.") "I went to Vietnam and I lost half of my back. I am here because my son just came back from Iraq and lost both legs. I am so proud of my son and your daughter, Simon. I want to buy you a beer!"
I realized that I could never talk to this man about my hostility toward this government and this war. The last thing this guy wants to hear is that he and his son did all this for nothing.
"Simon, my son and your daughter did the most beautiful thing in this world, and this is why we are in such a great country!" he said and kissed me again.
That night I went back to our room pretty confused. I didn't know anymore what to think. This guy was somehow right: Mariela was happy in the U.S. Army. She had a job, responsibilities. The Army gave her a reason to live, to do something for other people and to feel needed. The U.S. Army gave Mariela something that we, her parents, did not. Whatever happens in the future, I will always remember the U.S. Army has been good to Mariela.
Lisette was sleeping, the TV was still on. I switched the TV off and went to the window to close the curtains. Looking through the window, I saw two big ambulances parked in front of the hospital. They are here on time. Like a clock. Right on time. And three times a week they bring 30-50 kids – or what is left of them.
I closed the curtains and went to the bathroom. I needed to throw up.
~ Emile Meylan
