Pictured here in the obligatory card game are, from left, Staff Sargeant Carla Cano-Perez (C-P to all of us), 5′4 and with an “Hecho en Mexico” tattoo on the back of her neck, is in charge of the medics; SPC Cordero, whom you already know; SFC Catherine Langer, the Non-Commissioned Officer-In-Charge of our clinic. SFC Langer is the powerful, maternal figure who keeps our clinic together. She is a Wii-fitness fanatic, and has truly excellent taste in music, books, and movies (i.e., she agrees with me on most things).

SGT Stephen Evans, chillin'.

SGT Stephen Evans of Asheville, NC, who just got back from leave in Vegas. SGT Evans is another one of my favorite kids. A solid medic, and one of the best schmoozers I have ever known, which has served him (and us) well in Al Asad, where he has been able to finagle and trade for the things we so desperately need, from air conditioner parts to entire vehicles.

SGT Castulo Vera

And sauntering up the row of cans is one SGT Castulo Vera, known is our clinic as the World’s Tallest Mexican. Fortunately, SGT Vera is not standing sideways, or you would not be able to see him. Vera is a fine medic, and one of the few natural athletes in our company. A soft-spoken guy who doesn’t put much money in the “swear jar.”

SGT Ernest Hert and CPT Joshua Baker

SGT Ernest Hert of San Diego, CA is on the left. He is NOT soft-spoken like Vera, but is a good guy who would take a bullet for any one of his comrades, and one heck of a barbecue chef—the man of a million seasoning salts. SGT Hert will be heading to Ft Carson in a few months, but he doesn’t want to stay there; Hert loves to be where the action is, and will probably be in Afghan sometime next year, heading up a team of medics somewhere.

To SGT Hert’s right is my closest friend here, CPT Joshua Baker, who is our clinic’s optometrist (and the only one on Al Asad or any of the surrounding posts). CPT Baker is originally from upstate NY and currently from Alaska. He has been the personal fitness trainer for our entire company. He’ll be heading to Germany when he gets out of Iraq. I have publicly predicted that Baker will be the top Optometrist in the Army within 10 years. Not a tough call, really, as he is the epitome of “squared-away”: smart, in good shape, and with unimpeachable integrity. (Also, note the pre-formed beef patties on the grill.)

SGT Andres Villareal

This is another one of my favorite kids, SPC (p) Andres Villareal, who will be a SGT in one short week, and has given me the honor of “pinning” him (i.e., putting the rank on his uniform for the first time in a ceremony). SPC Villa is another one of those quiet, reliable, solid medics, who does whatever he is asked to, quickly and efficiently, with no complaining or excuses. One of my work-out buddies along with Baker, though he doesn’t look too tough here with his pink-hued leukemia water. Villa plans to get his nursing degree and become an officer.

——————–

Finally, this little guy did not attend our barbecue (at least, not that I know of), but Maya made me promise that I would post a picture of the lizard we caught in clinic a month back (a cute little dude, and well-behaved), so here it is:

Lizard in the Al Asad TMC

Last night we had a farewell barbecue for SPC Cordero who has, by the time you read this, already arrived at another base. Though it was sad to lose a member of our little group, the party was fun anyway. The PX here sells a very limited selection of frozen meats, including some pre-formed burgers with Vidalia onions mixed in. Combine these with the amazing assortment of spices (up to and including Montreal Steak mix) which the medics have accumulated, and the occasional (sort of) fresh buns available at the PX, and you have a pretty good barbie.

1000 Words

Our resident Marine Corps pilot, CPT Deb Turley, brought her camera last Sunday, and sent me this picture, which will give you an idea of what our humble church meetings look like. You’ll notice that all services (Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines) are represented here (note the different uniforms). Front left is Sister Turley, middle is Brother Lloyd, the second assistant to Brother Manny Diaz (second from left in the back row), who is our group leader. The woman who appears to be glowing is Sister Lott, who is wearing a night-reflective badge. This sacrament meeting starts at 8 PM, and most of the congregants walk or ride bikes to church.

Rupard Mailbag

Have I mentioned how very much American soldiers love to see those red, white (mostly), and blue priority mail boxes? They are like manna from heaven, sometimes literally.

On Monday of this week, my Norelco razor bought the farm, which is very bad news for me, as I use it to groom not only my face, but also my expansive & bald noggin. Having to physically shave my head with razor & cream is a huge pain, and usually results in a few nicks and/or not-quite-baby-smooth areas. So, I needed a new Norelco, stat.

Lorri Rupard to the rescue! I called Lorri on Monday, she went to Target (her favorite store), scored me a nice inexpensive rotary, and put it in the mail with a bunch of other goodies (Batman Pez dispensers, peanut butter M&Ms, rice krispy treats). Unbelievably, I received the package on Saturday, just 5 days later, which means that I had a nice smooth head for church today. Thanks, Lorri!

I also received two priority mail boxes from the Anundsens of Reading, PA. Beckles & Company filled those boxes with ziploc bins full of cookies, including sugar cookies, chocolate chip with nuts (woo-hoo!), peanut butter, and white chocolate macadamia. These were delivered just before the aforementioned barbecue, and were heartily enjoyed by my whole company of soldiers during said party. I have to confess, though, that one box of the choco chips remained in my trailer. I will be working through that one over the next 27 days. Thanks, Beckles!

One was a soldier who suddenly developed problems with rage, and stated that he “felt like he wanted to beat some of my co-workers to a bloody pulp.” Turned out that he is on a medication which can “unmask” underlying anger management issues. The culprit med is a steroid, for which he has a legitimate medical need; regardless, I can’t let a soldier with homicidal ideations walk around carrying an M16 and two clips of ammo. So he had to lose those, as well as his leatherman. Personally, if they took away my M9 pistol, I’d be a happy camper: one less thing to keep my eye on every second, and a bit less weight to carry around. The leatherman, I would miss, though. That individual went off to the combat stress folks, who will determine if and when he gets his weapon back. If he loses it permanently, he’ll be out of the Army soon thereafter.

Much of Thursday was taken up with a second interesting patient. A bit too interesting. I sent Lorri an e-mail about it as it was happening, some of which I’ll reproduce here:

Lorri-soup,

This has been an interesting morning already: the day of male and female problems. I have diagnosed two men with epididymitis (testicular inflammation) and one unfortunate 19-year old Private came into our clinic complaining of breasts enlarging, hair falling out, fatigue, and constipation. So what’s your diagnosis at this point?

I had two guesses: thyroid problems, or (much more likely) pregnancy. Unfortunately for her, the urine preg test came back positive, and she was escorted to the hospital, where confirmatory tests will be done. Then she will be shipped out of here, and will be subject to UCMJ action for unlawful sexual relations while deployed. She’s in the room crying as I write this.

–EJR

Whenever people see the pictures of Maddy, Drew, and Maya on my computer or elsewhere, I always get the same thing: “Sir, I do NOT envy you, having three beautiful young daughters.” Well, I’m here to tell you, that I envy me. I envy me very much. Good kids, those three. Of course, they aren’t done cooking quite yet, but so far, so good (I’d now be vigorously knocking on wood if there was any in this little plastic bunk-a-low).

———

I received a package from Amazon dot com on Friday. I had just placed my first order with them on Monday, and was hugely impressed that my books (Baseball Prospectus, Thomas Sowell’s latest, and “Weightlifting For Dummies”) got here so quickly. When I opened up the package, I was amazed to see that my books were, in fact, not in this shipment. Instead, the box was full of three huge box sets, containing the entirety of the series “Deadwood.” From a prior e-mail conversation, I knew that these were sent by my great friend from high-school onward, Steve Anisman. Steve and I differ on quite a few issues (politics and religion, to name a couple), but we have always enjoyed the kind of relationship wherein we can discuss topics on which we greatly disagree, without either of us taking offense. That is really invaluable to me, and I have learned a lot about listening and arguing by talking to Steve (e.g., lesson #43: Respond to each valid point he makes by stating that it is “not unmeaningless”; this buys me some a bit of time to think while he sorts out the pluses and minuses).

Also, Steve and my tastes run pretty similar on topics of art, especially books and movies. So, though I have not seen a bit of Deadwood, and only know as much about it as the sealed box tells me, I’m gonna break it out tonight, and I bet I’ll like it. In fact, my entire unit (the 581st Area Support Medical Company) is getting in on the act: on cool nights, we have been popping some corn, setting up the hammock chairs, and gathering outside around CPT Baker’s massive-screen laptop, and watching whatever anybody’s got. This unit got here six months before I did, so they have exhausted a lot of movies, television series, etc, but only a couple have seen Deadwood (both of whom greatly endorsed it). So, looks like we’ve got the next month’s entertainment set.

Steve, I have no idea what untold gajillions you spent on this set of three full seasons, but I want you to know how appreciative I am; when you wrote to me, I thought you’d send me a couple of your own discs at a time, and I’d eventually make my way through the series. This is a truly generous gift, and I and my buddies out here sincerely thank you, and your family. We’ll talk soon.

Here goes:

The Fightin’ 581st

The military unit with which I am currently serving is the 581st Area Support Medical Company. They are an active duty unit, based out of Ft. Hood, TX. The 581st deployed as a whole in September 2007, and have been running the Troop Medical Clinic since they arrived on Al Asad. This means that they had all been here for six months before I arrived, and will continue to be here for three months after I go home in September. The recent announcements that deployments will be reduced to 12 months sadly does not apply to the 581st, as it is too late for them to get an “early” replacement in Sept 2008. The unit has very good morale in spite of this, and all have pretty much accepted the December homecoming, but most of the soldiers have at least a little groundhog fever.

They do get a bit of a reprieve, though. Every member of this unit gets a scheduled “R and R” (= rest and recreation, I think) leave, in which they are allowed to go home for 18 days. The Army does not include travel time in this (which is a crucial point, as it can take easily take 10 days to get out of Kuwait), so the soldier get a full 18 days in the comforts of their own home before they have to come back out. The only downside to this (a significant one) is that they have to travel, which, aside from being among the most dangerous activities in Iraq, is also incredibly inconvenient. I’ve discussed this in documenting my own experiences getting out here (go back to March 7th-9th on the calendar at the left side of this page to read those entries), but will recap: you carry your own bags everywhere, flights are not guaranteed by any means, you can be easily “bumped” off of your flight by someone on a more crucial mission, and all trips home go through Kuwaiti bases, which are confusing, busy, and full of transients like you. But at the end of the trip, the soldiers get to be at home for a good couple of weeks, plus. I have been offered a short four-day June or July R and R in Qatar, where I would have a nice place to stay and some sightseeing to do, but I’ve taken pass. Again, the hassle and risk of travel isn’t worth it (plus, Lorri would kill me if I climb aboard any military plane of my own volition prior to the one that brings me home). But if I were gonna be out here for a year, I would most definitely take that R and R at home. Which leads me to…

Home, Sweet Home

It is pretty easy here to get to a point where one simply cannot believe that there are places in the world not besotten by dust. I took another long bike ride around the entire outer ring of the post yesterday (with CPT Baker, our optometrist) and as I looked at all of the different living areas (usually green-tents-turned-brown, or else white canister housing units), I imagined that one of them might have an actual nice, clean fluffy couch, with curtains at the windows, a chandelier somewhere, and, best of all, clean shiny surfaces on the living room, the kitchen, anywhere. I mentioned this to CPT Baker, and he told me that there is such a place, or nearly so. In one of the civilian camps, the main boss (the grand poobah, so to speak) has a large, clean trailer, with a spit-shined mahogany desk. Baker spoke of this desk with reverence, and said that the soldiers who were with him all wanted their pictures taken sitting behind that desk.

One of the real blessings of being in Iraq is the forced realization that life is so very, very good in the United States, and that many of the day-to-day things there that I used to never think about, are actually real blessings. Like being able to leave food sitting out for 30 minutes without an accumulation of dust rendering it inedible. In other parts of the world, it may be something other than the dust (say, insects, pungent/toxic air pollution, no personal space, etc) that makes the place less livable. How truly great it is to have a spiritually and physically clean place to come home to each day, to lie down in a bed and not have little puffs of brown “smoke” shoot upwards for a moment before settling back down. There is a reason why our church sees not only the family, but also the home itself as sacred.

When I was a kid, my parents very rarely went out at night or had parties at our house. Mom and dad were just about always home, doing things with the kids, cooking, cleaning, and so on. Other kids’ parents went to play bridge one night a week, bowled, went to dinner parties, or had frequent events at their houses. But the Rupards stayed home as a family. I never thought this unusual until later in life, when I had kids of my own and noted that some of my friends, including those with families, often found reasons not to go home (poker games, extra work to do, playing multiplayer Quake at the hospital), or else constantly were on the run doing extracurricular activities not involving the whole family.

I have become a homebody dad myself, not out of any sense of duty, but just naturally. I would simply much rather be in my home, watching Sponge-Bob with the kids (especially the bubble-buddy episode, or that one with the hash-slinging slasher), than anywhere else in the world. I am grateful for having been born of goodly parents who constantly sent the message to their kids that their family was by far the most important thing in their lives. Nothing else came anywhere close. I am forty years old now and, as you can tell from the blog, this hasn’t changed a bit.

Books

I have mentioned before that I brought a lot of stuff to watch, including about 5 whole seasons of shows, PBS specials, etc, and that I have watched little of it, in spite of the fact that I have more “disposable” time now than I have had since that last, lazy summer vacation before I went on my mission, in 1986. What have I been doing instead? Well, aside from Sundays, I get in at least an hour a day of exercise (trying to burn a bit of that cholesterol out of my arteries while I’ve got the chance), and I spend an inordinate amount of time writing (on this blog, as well as e-mails, real letters, etc). And I have been reading like a maniac. I re-subscribed to the Wall Street Journal. Though our mail has been erratic, I get one or two every so often at mail time, and I read through them, not quite as cover-to-cover as my dad, but I give them a good once over. Also, I have been reading actual books, including:

• Bleak House (Dickens, widely considered to be his finest novel, and so far, so good; I’ll let you know)
• War & Peace (Tolstoy—I figure if I am ever gonna read this monster, it’s gonna be now)
• Down & Out In Paris & London (Orwell, in which my favorite old-timey politico becomes an actual poor person for a couple of years, and describes how incredibly rotten it was to be poor at the turn of the century)
• 50 Essays (Orwell again. Absolutely brilliant. I am convinced that William F. Buckley ate this stuff up in his formative years.)
• The Book Of Mormon (of course; as they say, you can’t make this stuff up…)
• The Vision of the Anointed (Thomas Sowell; a brilliant conservative writer, who happens to be black, writes about how self-congratulation has become public policy.)
• They Marched Into Sunlight (David Maraniss; got this one out of the Borders bargain bin for a buck before I left, and it is awesome, sort of the “Band of Brothers” for Vietnam; depressing, but a constant reminder to me of how incredibly good I have it compared to those unfortunate soldiers.)
• Baseball Prospectus (Gotta have some fun, don’t I?)

Got a few others which I’ve recently completed or just started as well, but we’ll let those slide. The first four of those I am reading online at one of the project Gutenberg sites; the rest I either brought with me, or are audiobooks).

and finally

How to Become an Oncologist

I have had a few people ask me about the exact path one has to take to become a practicing specialist. So here’s the dealio:

After high school, the budding doctor of course has to get a four-year college degree. Doesn’t particularly matter what that degree is in (mine was English). To get into Medical School back in my day, you needed to be in the top third on the MCAT (roughly) and have about a 3.5 GPA, plus a good recommendation from the school’s pre-med program. I hear that it is a bit tougher right now, so the MCATs and the GPA may have to be higher.

Medical School is four years. You don’t do any specialty training during these four years; most of the classes (with exception of a couple of electives during the fourth year) are set in stone and the whole class takes them all together. It’s not like undergrad, where you get to choose your classes, teacher, etc. During the third year (or fourth year, in some cases), you have to choose a primary specialty. This can range from internal medicine (the only specialty with leads to most of the subspecialties, such as Oncology, Hematology, Nephrology, Rheumatology, Cardiology, Infectious Disease) to General Surgery, to Family Practice, to Pathology, and a few others. Once you have a specialty chosen, you apply for internships in that specialty. Some people do not choose a specialty at this point and instead apply for a “Transitional” internship, which can then lead to one of the above specialties (though they’ll often be behind the 8-ball a bit).

Internship is the first year of post-medical shool training, and provides more broad-based training than the later years in residency offer. It used to be that some doctors did only an internship, and then would go on to go general practice somewhere, but with the advent of Board Certification (read on), this is no longer really feasible. This is where the “slave labor” part of one’s training begins in earnest, though recently, at the threat of legislation, the US medical community has put strict rules on intern/resident hours, which has made life better for those in medical training.

A residency last from three years (Family Practice, General Internal Medicine) to 7 years (Neurosurgery). To become an Oncologist (or any of the other subspecialties listed above), the three-year Internal Medicine residency has to be completed. Then, the lucky resident gets to go through the application process all over again, for his sub-specialty training, which is called a “Fellowship.”

Fellowships are generally from two to three years. Mine was three. During fellowship, you have to take and pass the Internal Medicine board exams (two days of tests), to be eligible to board certify in the sub-specialty. The fellowship part of my training was easily the busiest, most time-consuming, and difficult. I worked my tail off, and it did not seem like I saw my family a whole lot.

When Fellowship is completed, then you get to take another board exam. In my case, I did two Fellowships in one (Hematology and Oncology, which often go together) and so I had two boards to take. I took Oncology the first year, and Hematology the next year. Did I pass? You can look it up. Just type Rupard into the “Last Name” field there.

So lets’ do the Math: 4 years of undergrad, 4 years of Medical School, 3 years of Internal Medicine Residency, and 3 years of Heme-Onc fellowship = 14 years to get some pretty certificates for my wall. Hey, Jacob worked that long, too, so that he could get permission to marry the love of his life. One might be excused for thinking that Jacob got the better deal for his 14 years’ labor. But remember: your trusty narrator got the degrees and the beautiful girl.

(Sorry, Jake.)

All day today, there has been a brown cloud of dust hanging over Al Asad. The wind has not been fierce enough to cause a massive sandstorm like the one I described a week ago, but it has been consistently 10-20 mph today, good enough to keep things swirling around the dustbowl ad infinitum. I have been inclined today to wonder aloud whether, eventually, all of the dust in Iraq will blow over into Syria (it always seems to blow westward). That would theoretically leave the air here nice and clean, keeping the grit from constantly accumulating on all of my smoother possessions. My medics inform me, however, that when the dust blows out of Al Asad, “they just make more.” When I asked him who “they” are, he just looked heavenward, which makes me think he may be a latent Mormon.

Because of the dust, there were few incoming planes, which meant no mail, no new shipments to the PX, etc. It also meant that practically no “minor” patients (i.e., back pain, bilateral left foot pain, etc) made the trip to our clinic today. When the dust is this bad, it hurts to open one’s eyes and even to breathe, and the visibility is terrible (though you can find other people by going in the direction of the coughing noises), so people pretty much stay indoors. No runners, no bikers. The very few patients I saw today were all pretty sick. These “brown-out” days tend to bring out the underlying (and the obvious) respiratory illnesses in people, and today was no exception.

After work, I got a ride home, leaving my bike at the clinic, and did some housework for awhile, caught up on some reading and writing, and then headed out to dinner with a group of medics. It amazes me how, whenever I get a chance to really talk with someone—anyone—theye always seem to have an interesting story to tell. I would like to relate each of my medic’s stories on this blog and I may just do that if I get their permission. Suffice it to say, that each of the humans with whom I am working is much more complex and interesting than their Army “Enlisted Record Brief” would have you believe.

At 7:30 PM, I went to the Al Asad branch Family Home Evening. The sister who sets this up every Friday is a SGT, and she does a great job. Somehow, she manages to bring popcorn, cookies (all baked goods are a rarity in this place, from bread on up), and even some of the flavors of Gatorade other than the three (red, green, purple) which are served in the DFAC. I have no idea how she gets these other, mystical, magical flavors (blue, orange, yellow), but I am grateful for them. I grabbed a blue one tonight, but I purposely didn’t drink it all. Instead, I saved some of it, so I can extend the pleasure of drinking something different over a couple of days. What a sad, sad life I lead.

FHE was populated by the aforementioned sister, Brother Diaz who is a Marine Master Gunnery SGT (that’s very high-ranking enlisted) who serves as a our group leader, Brother (CDR) Nance who is a chaplain and our stake representative, an Army SGT from Sacramento with a very east coast accent, a LCDR (same rank as me, but in the Navy), and a few civilians. Everyone is very humble and sweet here, and grateful to have each other’s company for a few moments. It’s nice to be in a room in Al Asad with a bunch of people talking for an hour, and never once hear the “Eddie Murphy word” (which during that same time span, my medics would likely have used as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and—of course—an interjection, usually followed by a glance in my direction and an apology). We watched the excellent “Let Not Your Hearts Be Troubled” DVD about LDS missionary service. If you haven’t seen that, try to find it, even if you are not a military member. It is very inspiring and gives some real insights into LDS military life.

Brother Hales, the civilian with the Orson Pratt beard, gave me a ride home through the brown haze afterward. He has been here a year, and is going home in June. He did not say it, but I could tell that June cannot come too soon for Brother Hales.

I know the feeling.

Well, here in Iraq, my bed has become much more than a place for sleeping, computing, and snuggling. Given that it takes up about 1/6th of my canister, this should not be surprising to anyone. But there is another factor which makes the bed even more of an all-purpose piece of furniture here in Iraq. I do have a chair in the room (as does just about everyone here), but it is of the only variety to be found at the PX: one of those foldout, canvas “captain’s” chairs, complete with the cupholder on the right armrest. These are great chairs for sitting and talking, watching a soccer game, or leaning back and watching a movie. In fact a few of us do the latter about every other night in the little alley between our cans, with the cool air and the sparkling desert sky providing us the perfect setting as we stare at the insanely large screen of CPT Baker’s laptop, and eat micro-pop. The folding chairs, however, are not the greatest place from which to eat a meal. The hammock-esque build of these things results in the seated party not quite being able to reach anything very far away, and not able to get enough leverage to spork the intended food item. So, I eat in bed. Gross, I know, but wait: it gets grosser.

Yesterday I went to the mess hall with SPC (that stands for “Specialist,” which is the title for certain 4th level enlisted personnel, the others being called “Corporals”) Holgate, an unfortunate kid who was supposed to be out of the Army months ago, but was “stop-lossed,” a word which means that the Army would not discharge him, even though he had completed his obligation. To add insult to injury, he was moved from his regular job (which had ended) into our clinic, where he currently doubles as front desk staff and manager of our “pharmacy closet.” SPC H’s prior job in the Army, the one for which he was trained, is as a cook. As we talked yesterday, we got onto the topic of foods we like, but nobody else does, and we found a common denominator: kippered snacks. If you don’t know what kippered snacks are, well, I don’t either, really, but I can tell you that they are some kind of fish, smoked, chopped up, packed in oil, and somehow squeezed into a can a bit longer and bigger than a sardine can. When the can is opened, the things stink to high heaven, and people actually get up and leave the room (not necessarily a bad thing). If all of this sounds really disgusting to you, congratulations. You are among the 96% of people in the world who would not eat a kippered snack if they paid you to. In other words, you are normal. But me, I like the stinky, smelly, oily, canned things, and so does SPC H. So when I had the truck for a few minutes today to pick up my laundry, I went by the PX on the way home, and grabbed five cans of kippered snacks off of the shelf where I had seen them, looking lonely, dusty, and oh so kippered, just a few days before. (Somehow, I knew that they would still be there.) When I got back to clinic, I gave SPC H a couple of cans, and put the rest in my bag.

After work, I hit the gym and worked out for nearly two hours, all the time thinking of those kips. I got back, showered, put on the PJs that Lorri sent me earlier this week, and sat on my bed, remote in one hand, and You Know What in the other. As I peeled open the sardine-like metal lid, I said the following to myself, almost aloud: “Erik, do NOT spill the kippered snacks on the bed. That would be very bad. Your little living space might not ever recover from such a toxic waste dump.” It was at about midway through that third sentence that I felt something cool on my leg. I looked down just in time to see it drip onto the bed spread. About 50 baby wipes later, and I now feel confident that I got rid of at least 1.3% of the smell of oily smoked fish. Only 98.7% to go! Ahh well, I wasn’t planning on inviting anyone over to my pad anyway. Time to call 1-800-MATTRESSSSS (the extra “s”es stand for “stinky salmon snacks”).

The weekend is coming up (here, actually, though I work on Saturdays, so it makes Friday night kind of irrelevant), and I plan to push out a longer, more cohesive entry tomorrow, but tonight it is late. For now, I will stew in my own kippered juices and fall asleep, dreaming of the following:

TEN THINGS I WILL DO WHEN I GET HOME

1. I will surf the web from the comfort of mine and Lorri’s king-sized, non-pungent Posturepedic. I will repeatedly click on the Wall Street Journal’s home page and marvel that it takes 15 milli-seconds to open up, rather than 15 minutes.
2. I will wander around town asking people to pronounce the word “potable.” If they pronounce it correctly, I will bestow upon them one Iraqi dinar–the old, worthless kind with Saddam’s picture on it, but still…
3. Our cupboards will be laid bare, and I will find something—anything—in them which is NOT “chunked and formed.” I will immediately eat that thing.
4. I will gaze upon the shiny, happy faces of my lovely wife and my precious, precious children. It will seem like an eternity since I have seen them, but also like only yesterday and that it the way that it’s supposed to be.
5. I will go to church, without a 9mm pistol strapped to my chest, and there I will be offered the sacrament by someone who, also, is not carrying a weapon. That I know of.
6. I’ll get in my car and drive more than 3.6 miles, which is the farthest I can go straight in any direction right now without running into the wire which borders our little “village.” Then, I will drive back home, and Maya will run out to meet my car when it gets there, so that she can hug me first. Never gets old, that last part.
7. I will get the largest cup in my house (maybe the horse bucket in the garage) and I will fill it with ice to the brim, and with filtered water from the little dispenser in the door of our refrigerator. Then, I will take a series of long, cool sips, and it will not taste even the slightest bit like dust or diesel.
8. I will head to Walmart and make my medics a care package, full of M&Ms and Chips Ahoys. When I send it, I will put all twelve of their names in the “address” field.
9. I don’t care if it’s raining, sleeting, snowing, hailing, thundering, or lightning-ing. I’m going swimmin’! I fully expect the pool to be green and more-alive-than-dead by that point (this will be September), but its dangerous algae levels notwithstanding, I’m getting in. Try and stop me.
10. And last but certainly not least: Group hug. If you’re reading this, you’re invited.

A Navy 0-4 (Lt Commander, I believe) and a Marine E-8 preside over the meeting, and a thin man in civvies with an Orson Pratt beard is delivering an Easter sermon. Previously, we sang an opening and then a sacrament hymn, mostly remaining in-sync with the pre-recorded accompaniment. Sacrament was brief (small congregation) and almost eerily quiet, lacking the wiggling, grunting, moaning, and occasionally screaming kid noises which are part of the aural landscape at home. Though I am not watching, it is apparent that not everyone takes the sacrament. I think we have some non-members here.
The audience, on our folding chairs, consists of enlisted Marines, a few Army folk, including a CPT, and a Navy chaplain LTC, Brother Vance, who is also the representative from the stake. There are nearly 20 of us here in total. Weapons are in hip holsters, or on the chairs next to church-goers. The atmosphere is quiet, and cordial. Everyone looks a little tired.

In the field, the LDS (Mormon) church services are only an hour long. Throughout my career, this has been perfectly consistent. Not sure if this is a DoD regulation, a standard Church rule, or if we can only reserve our little meeting spaces for an hour. I do know that it would be hard to manage the normal three hours here, and that Relief Society would be a fairly small group, in most cases. There are three women here today; one appears to be a Iraqi national, one a marine, and one an Army SGT with a Combat Surgical Hospital patch (likely an LPN). The hour meeting sems enough on this day, and we have a “Family Home Evening” during the week.

I am far from the first to say it, but there is something very reassuring about going to church in a deployed environment like this, and finding that it gives me that same spiritual renewal that I receive in church back home. President Kimball once spoke of the reservoirs that each of us needs to have, and pointed out that there is one reservoir that is of particular importance:

There are in our lives reservoirs of many kinds. Some reservoirs are to store water. Some are to store food, as we do in our family welfare program and as Joseph did in the land of Egypt during the seven years of plenty. There should also be reservoirs of knowledge to meet the future needs; reservoirs of courage to overcome the floods of fear that put uncertainty in lives; reservoirs of physical strength to help us meet the frequent burdens of work and illness; reservoirs of goodness; reservoirs of stamina; reservoirs of faith. Yes, especially reservoirs of faith so that when the world presses in upon us, we stand firm and strong; when the temptations of a decaying world about us draw on our energies, sap our spiritual vitality, and seek to pull us down, we need a storage of faith that can carry youth and later adults over the dull, the difficult, the terrifying moments, disappointments, disillusionments, and years of adversity, want, confusion, and frustration.

Dr. Archibald Brugger of my mission presidency once told us how we need to have our “buckets filled” every so often. I have found that to be true in my case, and things like prayer, scripture study, meditation on sacred things, all of these fill that bucket a bit. But there is something important and necessary about the company of other individuals, who are, like me, striving to be good with varying success. These brief, quiet moments never fail to renew my reservoirs, and to firm my grip on the iron rod. Perspective re-established, I walk back out into the blinding sun, the small/taste of dust and diesel, and I am ready for it.

In church, I was asked to say a few words prior to the first speaker. We then heard from the Fillmores, and Drew played her own arrangement of “Come Thou Fount Of Every Blessing” (beautiful!) in between talks.

It’s funny how, when we are running out of something good, be it food, hot water, or (as in this case) time, every little bit that we have seems so appreciated, almost sacred. That is how I feel now, as I spend my last few days with my family and friends, all of whom I love and will miss dearly when I go. But, honestly, there are other things which I will miss too. My comfy bed, for instance, or our cupboard full of food, fast wireless internet, having a car readily available (and interesting places to go to).

There is still much packing and preparation which I need to do prior to heading out, but for today, the Lord’s Sabbath, I am mostly just going to take a moment and enjoy, gratefully, those people and things which currently surround me and make my life so consistently good, and meaningful.

President Hinckley was a remarkable man. Under his leadership, the Church made a smooth (even ahead-of-the-curve) transition to the 21st century and the “new media” which has so greatly enabled us to spread our message. He appeared numerous times on national television programs and as a result of these appearance, he became close friends with Mr. King and 60 Minutes’ Mike Wallace. President Hinckley was a genuinely kind and charitable man, who managed to put even contentious people quickly at ease, without ever appearing “soft.”

Perhaps most significant to me personally, he bore more than a passing resemblance (both physically and in attributes of character) to a particular Grandpa who occasionally reads these pages.

He was beloved by members and non-members alike, and he will be missed.