Our Troop Medical Clinic (TMC) is an outlier at Al Asad, located physically a mile away from the big Combat Surgical Hospital (CSH), which is stocked with internists, surgeons, psychiatrists/psychologists, ER docs, radiologists, and an entire cadre of admin staff. The TMC is staffed by me, a Nurse Practitioner, an optometrist, and eleven medics, plus an administrative officer and a technician who makes glasses. We are more accessible than the CSH, both physically (there are no gates and no Ugandan guards separating the patients from us), and otherwise.

By “otherwise,” I mean that we take care of anyone who comes through our doors, to include Third Country Nationals (TCNs). Our fairly low level of “sick call” care allows us to at least initially evaluate all patients and, more often than not, we can fix what ails them. If not, then we refer them to their physicians on the outside.

Because of our open-door policy, we see a good number of TCNs, and as I have mentioned previously, they tend to be very grateful for the care that they get. Those from poorer countries only very rarely get to see a doctor on the outside; Iraqis have it even worse, as the licensed physicians here have been serially abducted, and thus have either fled the country or have been killed. About two months ago the only neurologist left in all of Mosul was kidnapped and then killed by his abductors. This “brain drain” has been widely discussed elsewhere as one of the destabilizing aspects of the current Iraq situation.

When we get to see one of these natives from the middle east, we truly feel like ambassadors of America. I have taken care of men with crushed hands and fingers, h. pylori-positive ulcers, kidney failure, strange all-over body rashes, and too many infections to count. Although we have no lab or X-ray capabilities, in most of these cases we can make a pretty good guess as to what is going on, and try a treatment empirically. This approach works well, though it sometimes takes two tries to get the right diagnosis. I can’t say that I like this less-scientific way of rendering a diagnosis and choosing a treatment, but it is satisfying when the Indian man who shows up complaining of stomach pain comes back two weeks and a few cheap antibiotics later, pain-free for the first time in years.

In the interest of full disclosure, there is a notable side benefit of our willingness to evaluate anyone who comes through the door. The practice has gained us some valuable friends on post, who have provided us with better air conditioners, some medical supplies, quick-fixes to plumbing and other structural problems, and lots of good food. To make it clear: there is absolutely no quid pro quo going on here. We just happen to have a happy and loyal fan base. Among these is the leader of a group of Turkish contractors, Mr. Abdul K. (Mr K gave me permission to write about him and use his name, but I prefer to keep him relatively anonymous.)

On Friday night, Mr. K brought us to the area where he and some other Turkish and Lebanese people are staying on-post, and they brought out an unbelievable buffet of lamb, goat (I think), chicken, hummus, salads, and rice. It was incredible—this was real food, not the greasy, pre-cooked stuff from the mess hall. The meat all had the kind of gyro spices which I love so much, and which are not to be found in our mess halls. The salads had cucumber, real tomatoes (!), onions, and some vinegar and other spices, which were just plain tasty.

I filled my plate three times (!, again), and cleaned it off. As I was sitting in the trailer that serves as their cafeteria, I noticed that there was no dust in the place, not even on the floor, which is unheard-of here. Then I noticed that the walls are 100% covered with drapes, top to bottom. These drapes probably serve to “fill the gaps” in the corners where the dust would otherwise come in. I am going to try to set up something like this in my can, at least around the doors and windows. I mentioned it to SGT Evans, who thinks that may be a fire code violation. Maybe.

The entire time we were in our camp, our Arab hosts treated us like royalty. Mr. K insisted that we eat all of their food, take a new plate every time we went for a refill, and he would not even allow us to bring our plates over to the kitchen for the cleaning people. Their kindness and genuine affection for us, and for each other, was palpable the whole night, and lent almost a holiday atmosphere to the occasion. Mr. K took lots of pictures, which he will bring by the clinic this week; I may post some of these here, if they are appropriate.

These types of experiences can lead one to wonder why we all can’t just get along. Lorri’s sister Aimee has spent a lot of time in the middle east, is very fond of the people here. After spending a mere two months in Iraq, I can understand that affection. But not all people, here or in America, are as reasonable, humble, and kind as Mr K and his crew. Still, it is always reassuring to know that some people are that way.