Living Images

March 22, 2005

I've been back a few days now, and with a rare exception, I have yet to look at all the photos that I have taken and all the photos that I downloaded from all my shipmates. Ordinarily, after a vacation, I can't wait to see the photos and to smile, reliving the moments.

But this was not a vacation; this was not an occasion to be remembered solely in photos. Why am I hesitating looking at those photos?

These memories, these rare gifts of extraordinary human contact, are still alive in my mind. They are all living images, saturated in the color of sapphire seas and misty green mountains, drenched in humid equatorial stifling air, rich in sound that echoes thunderstorms, laughter, singing, and the comforting chanting of daily prayers.

They are living images that remind me of the brave smiles and eagerness of the Acehenese to embrace the people who reach out to them.

They are living images of the frightened look in the eyes of a devoted husband as he walks to the helicopter, his paraplegic wife in the litter at his side. Living images of this man as he tucks his USNS Mercy cap into his belt, and clutches to his ER TV Cast t-shirted chest 1 month's worth of supplies for PICC dressing changes and IV solutions for mixing the twice-daily dose of vancomycin he must prepare and infuse. They are living images as she bravely smiles through her tears as we tuck extra nightgowns and bed linens under her knees and transfer her from the comfort and security of the “SUB” to the hard narrow litter for her helicopter trip to land, and to the hospital bed awaiting her.

Living images of the hospital, short staffed, and ill supplied, where patients must bring their own bandages and medications. Living images of this young couple as they eventually go home, with the new wheelchair provided by HOPE and Mercy, and the extensive notes of care so carefully translated and transcribed and fervently referred to many times before they left.

My memories are living images of a grateful patient who sent gifts of thanks back to the ship. A DVD with images of the tsunami wave as it swept into the center of the city, miles from shore, carrying trees, trucks, cars and boats in a muddy raging torrent. Memories of that woman, patient and stoic, imprisoned for 14 days in isolation as she went through several surgeries in a vain attempt to save her foot. Living memories as she struggled with crutches determined to walk off the ship and face her new life. A life without 4 of her 5 children, and their children. Living memories as she and her remaining son put their hands to their hearts, their heads and then to our hands, thanking us for their care.

My memories are alive with the sound of laughter of young children as they chased bubbles in their ward; with the enthusiastic cries of “Bingo” from the mess deck, and the incredibly energetic and irrepressible singing of security forces on Karaoke nights.

They are living memories of that southern voice every morning at 7 a.m., “Attention MTF, secure the decks for flight ops. I say again, secure the decks for flight ops.”, or of the chaplain at 2200 offering his nightly prayer always soothingly ending with "God bless this ship and the people on it, God bless the people of Banda Aceh and keep them safe."

These memories are still alive in me. Palpalable, with rich scents, sounds, and rhythms that infuse my exhausted sleep. I want to integrate these living images into my consciousness, to keep their dimension rich and alive, before I begin to review the photos in their flat dimension.

I want the memories that keep those photos alive. I want that incredible daily sight of the misty, lush Sumatra landscape burned into my mind. Before I embrace and repeatedly enjoy my hundreds of photos, I want to be sure the essence of those images stay alive.

As I watch my husband playing his special Frisbee game with our dog, I look around at our home and at all he did for me. I see the vases filled with handpicked flowers placed on color-coordinated table linens. I smile at the huge welcome home poster with my image and the HOPE and Mercy logos framed and waved enthusiastically overhead as I walked out through customs. I take special note of the carefully placed mementos of our life together arranged just the way he knew I would on shelves and tabletops throughout the house.

I smile as I see the photos and letters he had snuck into my duffel before I left, and at his Marine Corps pin he gave me for good luck...to keep me safe.

These are the memories forever alive for me. And I know, I am ready. Ready to take the surreal and blend it into my family's everyday life. I'm ready to share those photos and remarkable stories with friends and family, and relish my new reality…simple and celebrated.