Anchors Aweigh (again…)

13 June 2011

Back at sea as of yesterday morning.  We were all happy to say goodbye to Colombia.  As it turns out, our presence in the country was not universally welcomed.  I mentioned before that we had 900 security personnel at the MEDCAP site in Tumaco.  This meant a large influx of Colombian police and military forces (from outside the local area), which resulted in the capture of one of the key FARC leaders (the narcotrafficking group).  In retaliation for this, on Friday night, there was another explosion/shooting in Tumaco.  There were several casualties, and the Comfort was once again asked to assist with medical care.  For logistical reasons (leaving anchorage less than 36 hours later), the command elected not to accept these patients.  I have mixed feelings about this (I feel we could have stayed anchored for a few days longer to help out, as our medical care is clearly far superior to the system in Tumaco, and we have 2-3 extra days that we could eliminate in our next country), but obviously it was not my call.  I know there was a lot of information that was factored into the decision (much of which I am not privy to), but I can’t help but think we could have really made a difference in those patients’ lives – our ability to provide trauma care and resuscitation far exceeds Colombia’s – especially in Tumaco, where, as I mentioned, most of the physicians are on strike.  Well, everyone said Colombia would be our most challenging mission (so far), and they were right.

Saturday I was scheduled to take part in a doctor-to-doctor exchange (the SMEE), where we were to meet with local physicians to discuss medical practices.  Per routine, we awoke “in the fours,” (this should give you some foreshadowing here – nothing good can come from waking up that early), mustered for our boat at 5:30am, and arrived at the SMEE site before 7am.  No more than 45 minutes later, we were informed that all shore activities for the day had been cancelled, due to security issues from the previous night’s events.  We were then bus’ed back to the BLZ, where we were told no boats would be running until 3pm.  So then we drove to the HLZ, where, after a 2+ hour wait, we were able to catch a helo ride back to the ship.  The helo ride was fun, but did not make up for the early wake up call or the 6+ wasted hours – not to mention the supposed “risk” we faced by being off the ship due to security issues.  Our instructions for the mission are to “be flexible and keep a sense of humor” – two commands that I was unable to follow after our exercise in futility on Saturday.  After returning from the site, I had lunch and a nap.  When I woke up, I still felt inflexible and humor-less.  Later that day, one of my fellow internists mentioned that his 3-year old daughter had refused to talk to him on the phone, because she was mad that he had missed her birthday last week.  It struck me that Abi will turn 3 in a few weeks (and I obviously won’t be there) and I started thinking about how big the kids are getting and how I’m missing so much by not being home and I just started to tear up.  It was right in the middle of our nightly COPS (Current Operations) brief, so not too many people noticed, but I was still embarrassed.  The guy who had told me his story (that set me off) felt terrible for upsetting me – so then of course I felt terrible because, well, he was the one whose daughter refused to talk to him.  The nice thing is, we have a really great group of people in my department.  We’re all in the same boat, so to speak (get it? – that joke never gets old), so after the COPS brief, my fellow internists and other friends were all more than willing to lend a sympathetic ear, a hug, and their own sad stories.  That night also happened to be the Commanding Officer’s birthday, so after the COPS brief, they served delicious cake (unlike the regular dessert cake, which is the opposite of delicious).  It was a mellow kind of night – for everyone – but the cake helped.  After that, we all hung out on the flight deck, enjoying our last night off the coast of Colombia, and watched a movie.  I finished up the night by watching every video I had of the kids – sounds like torture but it actually cheered me up.

The next day I woke up feeling better but not normal.  It was Sunday, and was deemed a “semi-down day” (our second one of the mission).  At church last week, the chaplain said, “On the ship, every day is Monday – except Sunday!”  This is partly true.  When we are in port, both Saturday and Sunday are working days, so although church services are held on Sundays, many people cannot attend due to mission requirements.  So far, we have only had 2 Sundays at sea, when we haven’t had to work.  A semi-down day means that instead of mustering in uniform at 7:15am, we could muster in uniform at 10am.  For some reason, though, they moved church services to 8:30 (instead of 9), so I wasn’t able to sleep in for too long (and, inexplicably, they still called “Reveille, Reveille” at 6am).  They served “brunch” from 10-12, which consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and rice, with a side of bacon (guess that was the “br” in brunch).  Not sure who comes up with these menus. I kept waiting for the mimosas and eggs Benedict to come out.  After that, it was a relaxing day, followed by our second scheduled “steel beach picnic.”  A steel beach picnic is basically a cookout on the flight deck (our “steel beach”).  At our first steel beach picnic, right before we crossed the Panama Canal, everyone wore PT gear and sneakers (instead of the hot and uncomfortable full ABU or NWU uniforms and boots that we usually wear), and there were lounge chairs set up on the flight deck, along with games, contests, and a live performance by the Navy band (who were INCREDIBLE).  Unfortunately, yesterday, the weather didn’t cooperate, and so they moved the steel beach picnic inside to the mess deck (cafeteria).  And made us wear our uniform.  And there were no games or music or lounge chairs.  So, we ate hot dogs on paper plates on the mess deck.  Not much of a picnic – I wish they had just postponed it to another day.  We finished up the day by watching a movie and then we all went to bed early – everyone was sort of disappointed in our much-anticipated “down day.”

I realize this particular post is not as uplifting as some of my previous ones, but this is as much a memoir for me as it is a chronicle for my friends and family, and I want to be honest with myself and you all as to what is going on.  In general, this deployment is not terrible – the people are fantastic, my job is not too strenuous, and I am almost never concerned about my safety.  It could definitely be a lot worse.  But it would be lying to say that we’re never homesick or that we don’t drive each other crazy sometimes, or that I don’t get frustrated with the mission and lack of communication and feelings of futility with day-to-day and month-to-month operations.  I try not to think about it too much, because it’s a short journey from thinking about how much I miss the kids and Scott to thinking about how much I REALLY miss the kids and Scott and then getting through the already grueling mission days is that much harder.  I’ve made some amazing friends and we’ve had hours upon hours of conversations – some deep, some just entertaining and fun.  The ship is small enough that most of us know each other – at least by face if not by name.  But the smallness of the ship can be a source of frustration, too.  People who start to get on your nerves keep showing up – 3 meals a day, plus musters, meetings, mission sites, etc.  In the deployed setting, when 900 people are in a confined space, eating together, working together, living together, working out together – there are no secrets and no escapes.  When you’re feeling frustrated, you can’t just stay away from the people who frustrate you.  There is no private space (other than your bed, if you close the curtains around you) or place to vent without possibly being overheard – especially when, for example, the friend you want to vent to is roommates with the person you want to vent about.  Even a phone call home takes place in an open hallway, in a bank of 10 pay phones, with conversations open to everyone.  And while talking to Scott and the kids is the highlight of my week, I don’t want to waste precious phone time complaining about life on the ship – when I know things are much harder at home.  So, I’m grateful to have friends here and a blog to voice my frustrations to… =)