As The Sparks Fly Upward

On Saturday, 01 March 2008, four weeks ago today, I said goodbye to my wife and kids, checked in to CRC, and began my current existence in the “real” Army. Three Saturdays ago, I was introduced to the dust as my plane touched down in the middle-east. Over the past few weeks, I have observed some of the challenges the troops face over here, including family separation, the stress of deployment and combat, physical issues like the dust and the heat, among many others.

But on a Saturday which does not feel like a Saturday, one in which I got up at the same time as usual, went to the same place for work, and did the same things I do on other days, I am reminded that the worst enemy to our troops in post-surge Iraq, aside from the bad guys themselves, is the stifling boredom, the day-to-day sameness which presses upon the soldiers every day we are here. Deployees have a phrase for this monotonous, repeating daily routine, taken from the great Bill Murray film in which he is doomed to repeat one particular holiday over and over until he finally gets it right: “Groundhog Day.”

Now, the reader at this point would not be blamed for thinking something along the lines of: “If boredom is your worst problem during deployment, then you should be grateful.” I wholeheartedly agree with this, and I quite literally pray every night that it will continue to be as “boring” in Al Asad throughout the next five months as my first few weeks have been. There was an article in the Stars and Stripes (the free daily paper here) this week which discussed how chest pain, and not trauma, is the number-one cause of medical evacuations out of theater. One of the doctors was quoted as saying “When you put a middle-aged man in 130-degree heat, give him 40 pounds of gear and start shooting at him, all of the sudden that can bring out a lot of heart disease that may not have been appreciated before that time.” We “fobbits” are very happy NOT to be in the heat, wearing the gear, or fending off the bullets.

But there is indeed a danger, both psychological and physical, of being in the same, zombifying, numbing conditions day after day after day. Allow me to illustrate, using my own situation as an example.

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Imagine, for a moment, that you have moved to a new town. This move was not your choice, but was required of your employer (an employer who happened to be able to throw you in jail if you refused the relocation). In this new “town” you are well-protected by people at the borders, and are even given a weapon which you can (and must) carry everywhere you go. However (and here’s the catch), at the borders of the town you are surrounded by people who have feelings about you ranging from a wary distrust to an outright and clearly-stated desire to kill you. Some members of the latter group have even been known to lob a few bombs in your town’s general direction, but you are very well-buffered from such things. At least for now.

The “town” itself has some issues, too. Its practical living area is fairly small (two miles square), and due to importing issues, there is very limited transportation, so you walk or bike to most places. There are only two restaurants in town. Both are of the same chain, which is run by a government contract. These are of the “all-you-can-eat” variety, with plentiful quantities of cheap, greasy food, very little produce (tomatoes on Tuesdays only), and no take-out. (To be fair, the town does have some American fast food staples like Burger King and Subway, but these are also run by the same contractor, and taste remarkably similar to each other and to the bigger restaurants.) There are no grocery stores in town, so eating at home is not a real option. Of course, you have no kitchen, either.

The housing in town is of two varieties: very small efficiencies with no attached bathrooms (you share a communal latrine/shower 100 steps out the front door), and larger multi-occupant dwellings with no walls (a.k.a. tents). You are “lucky” to live in one of the 8 x 12 efficiencies. There is no movie theater (though one is in perpetual “reconstruction”), no library, no ATMs or banks (though there is a government-run “finance office”), no grass, no families, no children, no museum. There are very few females, and those that are here are allowed nowhere near the males’ living quarters. Even if your spouse were here also (and she isn’t), she, too, would not be allowed in your “space.” There is absolutely no hanky panky here. Don’t even think about it.

You have free cable TV, but with only seven channels which show delayed versions of the more popular shows. More popular, that is, among twenty-somethings, who make up the great majority of the town’s inhabitants. All of the people in town share a single internet connection. The landscape is dusty and brown, dry and hot, but without even tumbleweed to break up the monotony.

There are some positives, though. The gas is free. The buses, though unpredictable, are also free. The food is free. The other people in the town are either quiet and demurring, or else friendly and sympathetic. There is a communal sense of being in the same difficult situation together and ninety percent of the people here are making the very best of it. There is free laundry service, with a 72-hour turnaround. There is little running water, and what is here is not potable, but there are pallets of bottled water everywhere you look. The bottled water is clean and refreshing, and three versions a “Crystal-light” knockoff are plentiful and also free. You are not the king of this place (by a long shot), but you are some form of low-level royalty—an “earl” or a “duke” perhaps. This does not afford you anything special most of the time, but in a few key situations (i.e., travel, getting things fixed), it really helps you, and also the people with whom you work. Kind-hearted people from the “homeland” send you things, just for being here, and those who will never have to “relocate” are grateful to you for doing so, even if it wasn’t your choice. Finally, and most importantly, this relocation is temporary; you will, after a certain number of days, be allowed to go home. This fact takes quite a bit of the sting off of all of the negatives listed above.

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As with all analogies, this one is not quite right. There are a few things I have missed, both on the positive and the negative sides. The stifling boredom coupled with the sense of a vague, surrounding, impending threat brings on a feeling of isolation which is very hard to explain, but which one can envision bursting into all-out paranoia in the more susceptible or more greatly-tested among us. There are long periods where I do not feel this isolation at all, followed by brief, acute periods where it is exquisitely painful. At first I thought that these episodes were random, brought on just by shifting chemicals in my head, lack of sleep or whatever. But I have come to realize that they are triggered sometimes by the strange incongruities experienced by the deployee. There is a parody song which is popular in theater, sung to the tune of “Hotel California.” It is mostly profane and childish, but occasionally right on, as in these lines from the chorus: “Welcome to the Hotel Camp Fallujah/Hear the speakers sing/We’ve got incoming/Livin’ it up at the Hotel Camp Fallujah/You’re in a combat zone/Go get your ice cream cone.” I guarantee you that the person who wrote those lines has been here, and has eaten many of the Saudi “Drumsticks” out of the freezer near the mess hall exits, all the while wondering if he can stand to partake any more of these same day-in-day-out markers of the time he has left in this place.

FROM THE “I AM NOT WORTHY” DEPARTMENT:

On Friday afternoon, I was the big, BIG winner among my clinic staff when it came to mail call. (Count ‘em) SIX packages came to me. The first was from my lovely wife and children, and included some precious mementos from home, which have already taken up residence on the walls of my cave. Lorri also sent me some nutty goodies from Earthfare (those sesame-seed-and-honey bars which I have always loved so much) and a Bruce Springsteen t-shirt which I got at a concert Barry and I went to back in 2003. I remember that night–we met at Shea stadium. I came from the south (DC) and he came from the north (CT), and we met, saw the concert, and then sat in my car talking till 2 AM. Finally we each headed back home, remaining on the cell the whole time to keep each other awake. Good times.

Another package was from a good friend, Diana, who like me suffers from post-lasik dry-eye syndrome. I know Diana from dryeyezone.com, a place which anyone reading this who has dry eyes should visit immediately. She had read about the dusty biscotti package sitting in our clinic’s “free” basket, and decided that we need a lesson in taste, so she sent us some homemade biscotti. Diana, it is delicious: not at all the hard, pointy stuff which I have been served before. thanks for that and a big thanks to your kids for the great pictures. They are also adorning my “den” as I write this.

The third and fourth packages were from Lisa and Adam Spice, who have contributed to this blog. They contained two incredible pillows (leaning on one now), a much-needed mouse for my computer at work (woo-hoo! now I can get all the way to the left of the screen without using both hands!), and some huge (HUGE) Ziploc bags of the kind prominently featured on The Sopranos. You seriously could fit a body in these things, but, more importantly, a whole lot of stuff that I want to protect from the dust. Thanks, Spice Family!

The final two boxes came from an address a bit north of the Spices in Indian Wells, CA. These boxes weighed about 20-30 lbs each (I’m guessing) and contained a bunch of Sam’s Club items which have already taken a prominent role in our humble clinic. Among these are: a box of 850 gumballs (the large, 25-cents kind, Double Bubble brand), two big boxes of beef jerky, two boxes full of regular-sized candy bars, bags and bags of assorted sweets ranging from Hershey miniatures to Starburst, to Charms lollipops. The labels on the boxes state only that they are from the “AG Family.” I have wracked my brains trying to think of who that could be, so that I can send you a proper thanks, but to no avail. If you wish to reveal yourself to me, drop me a line at rupard@gmail.com. If not, please accept my grateful thanks (and that of my medics and patients). All of us have partaken of your generosity, and it will “feed” us for weeks to come. I truly cannot thank you enough for your generosity.

Time for a long bike ride, and then (if it’s late enough) a call to the birthday girl, Madeline Rupard, delivered in Payson UT on this day in 1991. Maddy, we had the BYU health plan back then and your birth cost us 75 dollars. I want you to know that you have been worth every last penny of that (even when adjusted for inflation).

See you tomorrow!