(U.S. Army photo illustration by Sgt. Breanne Pye)
March 27, 2012:
I didn't know what to think this morning when my Brigade Surgeon called an impromptu meeting with me.
"I'll see you at 1300, kiddo," he said.
That should have been my first clue. Since when does a U.S. Army Major call a 32 yr. old Sergeant 'kiddo'?
I
didn't take a lunch today. Too much weighing on my mind. What was this
about? My first thought was that I was caught trying to care about
someone again. In the Army, a specific meeting time generally mean's
you've seriously fucked up. And for me, that usually means I had a hard
time keeping my mouth shut when something is weighing on my mind.
I looked at the clock constantly. I texted my friends furiously to keep my mind off the looming appointment.
12:30 came and went.
12:45 came and went.
12:50 came and went.
Lots
of time to think about all the things that make me love my job, this
lifestyle, and the uniform I wear with pride every day.
12:55 came and went. I had a feeling I should brace myself.
1300.
I
walked down the hallway of my Brigade toward Doc's office... the same
hallway I've walked down hundreds of times every day since the day I
came to 1st Brigade Combat Team... "Raider" Brigade, more than 3 years
ago.
As I walk down the hallway, I see my passion
everywhere. Large, poster sized pictures of Soldiers working on M2A2
Bradley Fighting Vehicles, pictures I've taken of my comrades and their
friends, enjoying a cool lunch break in the Camp Nathan Smith Dining
Facility in Afghanistan... Pictures of combat patrols, award ceremonies,
brigade-sized formations, fundraisers, military balls, homecomings,
MAT-Vs speeding across the unforgiving landscape of Afghanistan,
helicopters sending one of our wounded Soldiers to the only shot they
have at surviving.
(U.S. Army photo illustration by Sgt. Breanne Pye)
Pictures of too many flags draped
across too many metal caskets of men I loved fiercely... on their way
home for the last time. The last snap shot their families, friends and
fellow Soldiers would ever see.
(U.S. Army photo illustration by Sgt. Breanne Pye)
Pictures of young American men and women in uniform training young Afghan men to defend and protect their country.
(U.S. Army photo by Sgt. Breanne Pye)
I walk a few more steps.
My
news articles are framed on the walls of every Battalion in this
Brigade. Nearly every section has an article I've written or a photo
I've taken of one of their amazing Soldiers. Proudly tacked to cubicle
walls, or tactfully displayed as a screen saver on their work computers.
It
feels like history. My history. OUR history. Something important that
I've dedicated my life to. People I love that I have cried with, laughed
with, FOUGHT with, thrived with.
(Photo by David Bowering)
Doc is waiting for me at the door to his office. He smiles at me, opens the door, and motions for me to come in and have a seat.
When I walk in, my breath catches.
More pictures.
Pictures of broken feet, broken fingers, broken legs, a broken arm, and a broken nose...
Pictures of my back.
A kaleidoscope of electromagnetic radiation photos that document another part of my history.
I
breathe out, and look at Doc. He smiles at me... his eyes are watery.
We've been through hell together. He's fought valiantly for my right to
continue to wear this uniform. He's always been on my side. He's always
believed in me when I told him I can still do this.
"I know you're not one for beating around the bush," he says. "But I need you to hear me out."
For
over an hour he talks to me about my history. He meticulously documents
every broken bone, every ER visit and every bizarre illness I've had in
the 4 and a half years I've been back in this uniform. He spells out
every detail. He compares each individual injury to a case that resulted
in the end of a Soldier's career.
"I have to spell it out
for you because I know you," he says. "For months, I've been waiting
for you to realize that if you continue to push through all of this,
there won't be anything left of you to push with."
There
is a moment of silence. My face gets hot. I feel the tears coming from
somewhere I thought they would be safe, and distant.
"I
know you well enough to realize that you're never going to admit it's
time to tap out," he said. "Because I care about you, I'm tapping out
for you."
I wait for the hammer to fall.
"Tomorrow, at 1300, I'm starting the paperwork for your medical discharge," he says.
There's
no stopping the tears now. I think about the pictures I passed in the
hallway. I think about the faces of all the people I love and respect,
staring at me from the walls on my way to this devastating meeting.
"You can't do it anymore," he tells me. "If you keeps this up, your back is just going to snap someday."
I sink, heavily, into a chair that appears beside me.
"You're
32 years old, Sergeant Pye," he says. "If I send you to a medical board
now, you get out of the Army at the pinnacle of your success."
"You're a big deal right now," he says. "You are going to have people knocking down your door for a shot at hiring you."
He
tells me he knows I can tough it out for a year, or two or five... but
in the long run, I'm going to come out the other side of this so broken I
won't be able to lift a camera.
I know he's right, so I
don't say anything. Every moment that passes, I just feel more and more
embarrassed because the tears will NOT stop.
Silence, and then I find my words again.
"I hiked over 13 miles this weekend, Sir."
I don't know what else to say.
"If you trust me, you'll hike a thousand times that in years to come," he says, then hugs me.
It's
over now, and I know I literally don't have a leg to stand on. He
explains what is going to happen in the days and months to come. He
tells me all the reasons he MUST do this, as my doctor. He tells me
about all the benefits I'm going to get, as a condition of my medical
discharge.
"This is only the end of one volume, Sergeant
Pye," he says. "But it's not the end. I can't wait to see your pictures
in National Geographic."
I smile on the outside, but on the inside, that only makes it worse.
"You're going to be a big deal," he says as he shows me to the door. "I have absolutely no doubt about that."
On
my way out, I walk a little slower. Most of my fellow Soldiers have
never seen me cry. The pictures on the wall are glaring at me now.
Because now, they really are history.
"At least I've left my mark," I think
to myself. "At least they won't forget my name."
(Photos by David Bowering)
