I should have been dead or burned alive.  Instead I was sitting in the upper gun turret when my buddies, my squad, were blown apart and incinerated by an IED.  I guess I was lucky because all I got was the concussion, contained within my helmet, so that my head didn't explode, although it might as well have.

When I woke up in ICU, I couldn't see or hear anything, just a blurry mess of movement, and tangled sounds more like a busy cafeteria, and then a quiet room with monitors occasionally sounding alarms.  They sectioned my skull like an apple to relieve the pressure and saved my life, while blood and fluid drained away, replaced by aggressive IVs that I had no real awareness of.  I had been gone for a long time, they tell me three months, when they were about to pull the plug and saw my fingers twitching along with my eyelids––the first movement since the emergency operation in a makeshift tent by the side of Hell's Highway.

So here I am, hooked up to all these machines keeping me alive.  I can see and I can hear, but I can't talk.  I can feel that I can't move.  And what I feel is not good.  Have you ever had an itch you couldn't scratch, a pain you couldn't adjust to?  Well it isn't pretty––it's more like torture.  The doctors and nurses look in my eyes sympathetically, adjust me a bit and check all the monitors, and then move on, leaving me to contemplate my body and my mind, what's left of it.  I try to make eye contact to let them know what I need and how I'm feeling, but it's to no avail.  They just shake their heads and move on.

I'd like them to pull the plug, but they don't.  All of my young organs are in pretty good shape considering the military lifestyle and could help a lot of folks if they weren't damaged by the blast.  Why don't they pull the plug and let me go in peace?  Why do I have to put up with this torture, this nothingness? Why?

I can't even dream.  I don't have any memories to dream about.  Guess they were all blasted away by the concussion.  Don't know who I am or who they are except by their name tags, and then I forget right away that whether I've seen them before or I haven't––it doesn't matter.  All that matters is some relief from this constant torture of having my body manipulated but never eased.

Who is this woman that comes before me and cries. She is vaguely familiar but she has no name tag so she must be here just to see me. I think she's holding my hand, but I can't see it or feel it. What's the use trying to remember? Why doesn't she tell them that I need to go? I'm through with this life.

Sometime later…

I'm feeling better. But I still can't communicate. This woman, this beautiful woman must be wanting to have me around she spends so much time here. But wait, she's standing by the bed and they are disconnecting everything… The IVs, the monitors… Even pulling back the covers keeping me warm. What's happening? I can see the monitors. They are turned off. They must think that I'm dead. Maybe I am? Then why do I feel all this happening? Now two guys are slipping me into a bag. They are zipping it up. I can hear them talking in low tones, but I can't see them anymore. Everything's gone dark. I can't feel my breath against the inside of the bag… Help!… I'm yelling but no sound is leaving my mouth or the bag… Help!

I can feel them moving me on a gurney down the hall. They are quite rough with my body, not knowing that I can feel every movement. Now I'm in a truck or ambulance. I can feel the movement and when we turn--we're definitely going someplace. The vehicle has stopped. They have put me on a gurney and are moving me again. This place smells like formaldehyde. I must be in a funeral home. But they haven't taken any of my good organs for transplant like I requested. What's going on? Why aren't they doing what I asked? Haven't they read my directive?

Oh my God! They're draining my blood and replacing it with embalming fluid! Don't they know I wanted to be cremated! And they are dressing me in my dress uniform. Where did they get that? Who are they that are doing this to me? I didn't ask for them or it.

They've closed my eyes but they can't close my ears. I can feel them lifting me into the coffin and then wheeling the coffin out into a large room. They closed the coffin and left me here in this quiet room for I don't know how long. Wait, I hear people coming. They have opened the coffin door and I can feel them coming up to me and muttering words of comfort to themselves, but not for me. Now there are many people in the room. There are so many conversations going on that I can't pick up any of them. I can't tell someone that they've made a terrible mistake by not taking my organs. So sad… I feel sad.

They've intended to help. Taken me to a new place. I hear organ music and they've opened the coffin again. More people are streaming by muttering things to me. I don't know who all these people are or why they're paying so much attention to me. I'd much rather have donated my organs rather than have this funeral service going on and on.

I'm being moved again. I'm getting really tired of all this moving me around. We are outdoors. I can feel the temperature change. At first the sun was warming my casket, but now I heard thunder and can hear the rain beating on it. I can feel myself being lowered down while some minister I don't know is spouting more words like earlier in the chapel or church. It had to be one of those…

But, oh no! I feel dirt hitting the casket. They are burying me alive. But I am dead. I guess the soul does live beyond the body. Trapped in this casket underground. Woe is me. None of my wishes fulfilled. I must be facing this eternity alone here. This must be hell. I believe it is… Damn! Wait till I get out…

Copyright 2017 © Ronald W. Hull

3/24/17