Hamburger Hill

May 2017

Listen to the sound of the old man cry

Words of wonder, why? Why? 

“Why did we travel around the world to kill and be killed?

I watched men die.”

Listen with your heart, take those words down deep

so that he may know that while he weeps

He is not alone in this crazy world

He, an old man, and I, a girl

As I listen to this stranger’s words, 

more than just our gazes meet

By the end of his story told,

I was a girl, he called “sweet”

“I fought at Hamburger Hill,” he told me. He’d been carrying his story all these years. All I could do was listen and I knew that’s all I needed to do. Listen. And as I settled on this intent, my inner voice echoed, “Listen.” Tears began to well up because his words were beyond my ears and touched my heart. Oh the suffering he had been carrying all these years. War gives birth to chronic suffering that proves devastating to the soul. “Let me lift some of this heavy load, let me carry some of that burden for you,” I knew within. And through the act of listening, I felt I was able to do just that.

Mr. G had a bleeding tumor on his voice box.  Despite his hospital admission to the Medical Intensive Care Unit for throat cancer, his words revealed thoughts of suffering long carried through the past 47 years, thoughts of Hamburger Hill in Vietnam 1969.  I took care of him for two days. He was bleeding incessantly and unable to clear the clots that were forming in his throat.  We intubated him to protect his airway and he was whisked to our cath-lab for an emergent embolization of his superior and inferior laryngeal artery.  

The next evening, we extubated him.  As I ended my shift, he was extremely agitated while coming out of sedation.  I owed this to both his nature and the medications.  As I grabbed my belongings to leave, I went into his room one final time to say goodbye.  The crazy look in his eyes seemed to dissipate as he finally noticed me, really acknowledged me as that girl he met the day before.  “There’s the sweet girl,” I heard him say.  I gave him a hug and told him I was praying for him.  I’ll probably never see him again, and I hope that the rest of his days are not as frightening as the two we spent together.  Mr. G, who fought at Hamburger Hill just three days of arrival to Vietnam at the age of 18, I’ll never forget you.  God Bless and thank you.