Sherry Hemby’s father served in the Army National Guard. After working in the civilian sector as a trauma nurse, an emergency room nurse, and, later, as a traveling nurse, Sherry decided, in 1992, to join the Air Force Reserve Command. She is the acting command nurse for the Air Force Reserve Command and is stationed at Robins Air Force Base, in Georgia.
I’m in a lecture room at the hospital, attending a scheduled in-service professional training day, discussing medical care geared to specific cultures in the diverse DC community, when I’m told that my Air Force Reserves supervisor is on the phone.
“A plane flew into the Pentagon,” he tells me. “You need to report to the emergency room stat.”
I’m trying to mentally absorb his words as he explains to me what little he knows about what happened at the Pentagon and what’s going on in New York. It’s the morning of September 11, 2001.
The Alexandria Hospital emergency room, where I work as a civilian, is three miles from the Pentagon. I arrive, get the equipment prepared, and help set up the hospital for mass casualties. We’re not a level one trauma center or a burn center, so nearby hospitals that specialize in those areas will have to handle the critical patients.
None of us are sure if we’re going to be dealing with casualties from a single aircraft. We’re hearing reports that there could be more planes up in the sky. We also don’t know what, exactly, we’ll be dealing with in terms of the incoming patients.
There’s also talk of anthrax.
My roommate, who is also in the reserves, pulls out her deployment bag and consults a medical reference book for the signs and symptoms of anthrax. I write a checklist for the doctors.
By the end of the day, we’ve treated twenty-five casualties from the Pentagon.
My Air Force supervisor calls me again, asks me if I’m okay. I explain to him what I’ve seen and done over the course of the day.
“When you get home,” he tells me, “please call me immediately.”
Okay, here we go. I take a deep breath. There’s no doubt in my mind we’re going to war. It’s not a question of if; it’s when.
The Air Force activates my unit a few months later, in February of 2002. We’re going to Afghanistan, into a war zone, to bring out our wounded.
The guards salute me as I come through the gate. I tear up a little, feeling so proud to be here, to actually do this. It makes me think of my father, who served in the Army National Guard for twenty-three years. He taught me about patriotism—to think of others. Service before self.
My dad stood six foot three. When he put on his uniform, he stood taller. I was a little girl, and I’ll always remember my mother standing at the ironing board, making sure his uniform was perfect. Dad was so proud of his service. We all were.
As a flight nurse, your primary duty is to give each soldier the best care possible. To do that, you have to focus on the tactics—what medicines the patients need, how you’re going to deal with the effects of altitude during treatment. You need to make sure they’re stabilized, and you need to be constantly vigilant, watching for any signs or symptoms of possible adverse reactions.
To do all this effectively—to really focus—you need to put your feelings in a box. When I see how mangled the soldiers are, I remind myself not to let it get to me. If I do, I can’t be effective. I can’t do my job properly.
The C-141 aircraft is configured with stanchions in the middle and seats down along the sides of the fuselage. We place litters on each side. Each litter goes four high, and I have to climb over the ambulatory patients in the seats to check the patients on the fourth litter.
One fella looks like Radar from the TV show M*A*S*H. One arm is pretty mangled, so I put the IV with his antibiotics and pain medication into his other hand. I show him how he has to hold his hand a certain way.
“It’s to make sure the IV fluid’s going in properly,” I explain.
“Yes, ma’am.” Like the other soldiers on board, he’s young—nineteen, maybe early twenties. I’m thirty-two, and what these young soldiers deal with in the war zone totally amazes me.
I make my rounds, see nine other patients, and also check in with the other medics to make sure they’re eating and drinking plenty of fluids. If they don’t, they’ll physically crash, and they won’t be able to take care of the patients.
When I come back to the patient who looks like Radar, to make sure the pain medicine is working effectively, I see he isn’t holding up his hand the way I showed him. The IV fluid isn’t really running.
“You’ve got to hold your hand like this.” I demonstrate, and then I flash him a really big smile and decide to tease him. “Oh, now I get it. You just wanted me to come back and hold your hand, didn’t you?”
He gets this sheepish little grin on his face.
The teasing, the joking, holding a soldier’s hand—these soft moments make for more human interactions. It’s important, too, because every single one of these young men and women want to know how long it’s going to take for them to get better so they can get back to their troops. They still want to fight. Some of them feel guilty they got hurt. They feel like they’ve left their troops behind.
“Ma’am?”
The voice belongs to one of my critical care nurses. She’s got what I call the caregiver-fatigue look written all over her face. I know what’s coming.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” she says. “I don’t know if I can handle three more months of seeing the same people hurt over and over again.”
I tell her I’ll do my best to find a replacement once we get home.
Shortly after we arrive at the base, I get a call from my husband’s friend, who was the best man at our wedding.
“My neighbor’s son was injured and put on an Air Evac that’s coming to your base,” he explains. “Can you please look in on him, make sure he’s okay? His parents are worried sick. And his fiancée.”
He gives me the soldier’s name. I promise to check in on him and I hang up.
Getting this call has broken the barrier I’ve put in place. Knowing the patient’s name, who he is, makes him very real to me.
I can’t go to the hospital.
I go to my room and cry. I need to cry and then catch my breath before I go over and see the patient.