Rhonda the Night Nurse

Author's note: I served in the relative peace of Korea instead of in the little understood US action in Viet Nam, and therefore ask the brave men and women of my generation who fought, cried, and bled there to forgive the inaccuracies in my depictions. I salute your sacrifice, and hope you may enjoy this story in spite of my errors.

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As the Huey dropped quickly down to the bomb crater, we un-assed the bird and scrambled for the relative safety of the crater edge. While the rest of the three birds unloaded, we scanned the surroundings for signs of movement, and then started in the direction of our objective, the small knoll known to the generals as Hill 127, and to us grunts as just another piece of Viet Nam to be walked to, fought over, and then abandoned to it's fate. With rifles cocked and unlocked, and all senses honed to a razor edge, we started the slow route step to the base of the hill. I was taking my turn at point, and was congratulating myself on drawing this task on a day when we seemed to be the only people around. I was so involved in being pleased that I didn't see the thin wire stretched between the two of the trees on the paddy dike.

The homegrown VC mine was wired to the tree at waist level, and was designed to spray shrapnel at whatever tripped the wire, or at least that's what they told me afterwards. All I knew is that there was a small explosion to my right at the same time that I felt my right thigh turn to hamburger and hurt like no pain I had ever felt before. I screamed, and fell down, my legs no longer able to support me. Quickly, Doc Macon was at my side, wrapping me in bandages to stop the bleeding, and shooting me up with morphine. As he wrote the time of the injection across my forehead, he smiled and said, "Don't worry, Flanders, you'll be OK. Just hang in there. The bird's on the way to pick you up. You'll be drinkin' Jack and fuckin' round-eye nurses in a couple days." Then he was gone, on the way to join the platoon, and I laid on the ground slipping into the reverie of the dope, as a small rear guard waited to load me on the Huey.

I don't remember much of the flight back to the field hospital, just some noise and unrelated sights. When they unloaded me, and took me to the hospital, I remember a doctor saying, "Well, this boy's going to go home less one leg," and then another voice saying, "Wait a minute. It's not as bad as it looks. Let's get the bleeding stopped, pack it, and send him to Saigon. Let them decide." I went out just after I felt the needle slip in my arm.

There are more fuzzy sights and sounds that I recall if I think very hard, but the next thing I have actual memory of is waking up in a hospital bed, and looking down to see if my leg was still there. I couldn't lift my head very high, and was cursing my weakness when arms lifted my head and chest up so I could see. "It's OK, they're both still there," said the medic behind me. "It was close, but they think they've saved it. You're going to Japan this afternoon, so don't get too comfortable."

After the flight to the hospital in Japan, I was placed in a ward with twenty other guys suffering from wounds serious enough that Saigon couldn't take care of us. I was feeling pissed about being away from my unit. I was pissed that I had done something so stupid as to step on a tripwire and almost get my leg blown off, and was also feeling pretty sorry for myself. I was just waiting for someone to say something to me that would let me vent. I wanted to hit something or someone, just do anything to get this out of my system. Later the doctor's told me that some patients reacted to the medications by becoming aggressive, and that I had been a real ass for a while.

"Well, welcome to Japan, handsome," said the little red-haired nurse as she placed a clipboard on the hook at the end of my bed. She was about five-two, and her otherwise slender body was accentuated by the large breasts that thrust out the front of her white uniform. I figured her age at about twenty-five, and decided immediately that I didn't like her. I knew I hated her when she stuck a thermometer in my mouth, and grabbed my wrist to take my pulse. I pulled my hand out of her grasp and yanked the thermometer out of my mouth. I said, "Hey, bitch, just get the hell away from me, and leave me alone."

She just smiled, and said, "OK," and walked to the next bed. I laid there feeling very satisfied that I had shown her she couldn't make me do anything.

In about an hour, she came back with two orderlies. I was pretty weak, and couldn't resist much as they strapped my hands and my one good leg to the bed. They stepped back, and she approached the bed, smiled again, and then leaned down to whisper in my ear.

"OK, Flanders, here's how it works. I'm going to take your temp' and get your pulse. Now, do you cooperate or do I have these guys sit on you while I do my job?"

I was furious, furious at being tied down like an animal, and furious that a nurse would say anything like that to me.

"Well, fuck you, bitch. I told you to go away once, so just fuck you!"

She smiled again, a little strained this time, I thought, and was again pleased with myself. Then, she motioned to the two orderlies. One held my head still and opened my mouth as she slipped in the thermometer. "I wouldn't bite that thermometer, if I were you." she said casually. "The mercury is poisonous, and if it doesn't kill you, your hair will fall out, and you'll be impotent." The other held my arm as she took my pulse. She took the thermometer, read it and made a note on my chart. Then she motioned to the orderlies, and they released me. She came back to the side of the bed.

"I think I'll speak to the doctor about your medication. It seems to be affecting your temper, but that happens sometimes. I'm going to keep you restrained until you calm down a little, but don't worry, you're going to be all right. Your leg was shot up pretty bad, and it'll have to have some time to heal. When you're ready, we'll start rehab, and get you up and walking again."

During the night, another nurse came to give me some pills, which I wouldn't swallow. She just shrugged and produced a syringe, saying in no one to particular, "Well, they said you'd be a problem. We'll see how you like this, instead." She jabbed the needle into my arm and quickly pushed the plunger before I could react. "Now, go back to sleep. Rhonda will be back in the morning."

The next morning, I felt a little different, not so much on edge, and not quite so ready to fight the world. My leg was hurting, and I was hungry. I saw the doctor's entourage walking from bed to bed, and shortly they stopped at mine. One of them, the one in charge, I assumed, looked at my chart for a while, and then said, "Well, Flanders, how're you feeling today?"

I said I hurt and was hungry.

"I changed your prescription yesterday after Rhonda said you were being a bit of an ass. Sorry about that, but we gave you what we thought was best. It turns out you reacted a little stronger than we anticipated. The new medicine will do about the same thing, and you'll be a lot easier to get along with. I'll have Rhonda get something for the pain, and breakfast is in about half an hour. Now, I want you to get plenty of rest, and don't get out of bed for the next week. That leg's got to have time to heal, or you'll lose it, is that clear?"

I said it was, and the group moved on to the next bed. I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't. I could, however, lay there and stew in my own self-pity, and by the time the little red haired nurse came in with the cart of medications, I was pretty well on the way to a really rotten attitude, and my leg was hurting more than ever.

She rolled the cart up to the bed, and for the first time I realized she had a really nice figure, even in the nurses uniform. She also had a very pretty face with soft, deep eyes. She came to the edge of the bed, and looked me in the eye. "I'm going to take your temp, and check your pulse. Do I need to call those two big friends of mine again, or are you going to be good?"

"I'll be good. The doctor said my medicine made me a real jerk, and you asked him to change it."

She unstrapped my right hand, stuck the thermometer in my mouth, and checked my pulse while she talked. "Yes, sometimes certain medications cause temporary mental problems, and it's hard to predict. I asked him to give you something else that might not affect you that way. You really weren't a jerk. You were more of a totally obnoxious, self-pitying, uncooperative, asshole bastard, at least that's the way I described you. That's why he changed the meds." She smiled innocently, read the thermometer, made a note on my chart, and then brought me a cup with six pills and a glass of water. Again, she looked me in the eye. "Jenny said she had to give you a shot because you wouldn't take your pills. You going to take them this morning, or do I have to do the same?"

I silently took the cup of pills and tipped it down, and followed with the glass of water. "Is that better?" I asked.

"Yes, it was. One of those pills is to stop the pain in your leg, but it'll take a little while to kick in. I think we can take the rest of these straps off now. I just had them tie you down because you were a little hard to handle, bad leg or not. You seem to be calmed down now." She unstrapped my other hand and leg. She looked at me seriously. "Doctor Mills says you're to lay still and rest, or you still might lose that leg. Do you understand?"

I nodded yes.

"OK, now I'll finish my round, and then I'll be back to change your dressings. Oh, and by the way, being still includes not getting up to go to the bathroom. If you need to go, just press your call button, and I'll bring you a bedpan. OK?"

I nodded yes again, and she smiled and moved to the next bed.

Breakfast was actually pretty good after the months of C's and mess hall chow. I had oatmeal that wasn't like paste, eggs that were fresh, bacon, toast, and coffee. It wouldn't have mattered; I was starved. About midway through my second cup of coffee, the pain in my leg started to go away, and I started feeling better. By the time she came back, I was feeling good enough to notice that not only was her figure pretty good, she was just a really pretty girl. The sunlight coming in through the windows highlighted her short, red-brown hair with glints of copper, and when she saw me staring, she smiled the most dazzling smile I'd seen in a long time.

She was pushing a cart again, this time loaded with gauze and cotton. It took her an hour to get to me, and when she pushed the cart up beside the bed, that smile blazed again. She produced a pair of scissors from the pocket in the front of her uniform, and said, "It's time to change your dressings. This might hurt a little, but I'm pretty good at this, and I'll be careful." She flipped the sheet and blanket down to the end of the bed. I yelled "Hey", and tried to cover myself with my hands. The standard issue hospital gown had slipped up during the night, leaving me naked from the waist down.

The little red head laughed, a full, uninhibited laugh that caused all sorts of delectable little jiggles all over her lush body. "My, my, my, aren't we the modest one? Hmmm, I've seen a lot of uh,,,men, and you certainly don't need to be modest. Now, just let me do my job, and then I'll cover you back up. Think you can handle that? My friendly orderlies are still around, you know."

It was useless to resist; she'd only call those guys again. It was the first of many lessons I would learn about military hospitals. There was no modesty in a ward of twenty guys; most of them were too sick or injured to care anyway, and the nurses showed no mercy. Modesty just got in their way, and caused them to get behind in their many tasks. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to get used to this, and laid back while she worked.

She was gentle, although some of the bandages had adhered. She carefully teased the cotton and gauze away from the wound, and I felt little pain as she removed all the packing and bandages. When she had removed the last bandage, she began cleaning the wound. She finished and said, "Well, I'm ready to do you up again. Want to see before I do?"

I looked down at my leg, and a wave of nausea pushed my breakfast to the back of my throat. I've never been able to deal with blood very well, especially my own, and even closed wounds tend to make me queasy. I couldn't look for very long, but from what I saw, I was a mess. A good chunk of my thigh was just gone. The skin had apparently survived, and they had pulled it together and stitched it, but there was a hollow where the muscle should have been. I fell back on the bed, my heart pounding in my ears, and the self pity rising again to new heights.

She looked at me, and said softly, "Don't worry. You're going to walk again. It'll take a while, and you'll have a limp, but you'll walk. You know, lots of you guys who end up here, go home without a leg or an arm or both. Just think about that, when you get down, and you can always call me if a little talking will do you good."

She became all business again. "Well, I can't stand around here while you stare at yourself. I'll just get you wrapped up again, and then you can cover up that little thing you're so modest about." She said the last part just loud enough for the rest of the ward to hear, and the embarrassment made me forget about my leg until she left.

Just after lunch, she made rounds with medication again. She stopped by my bed and handed me the usual cup of pills and glass of water. As I gulped down the pills, she sat on the edge of the bed. She waited until I washed them down with the water, took the glass, and said, "I'm sorry about this morning, but we've learned that the best way to get patients ready for rehab is to get them to accept their injuries. I had to show you that, so you would be ready when it's time for you to try walking again. You had to see that you were hurt pretty badly, but that you still have a leg that can walk, if you work at making it strong again. You're healing well, and I want you to look at your wound every day, so you can see how it's getting better. You'll be surprised at how quickly it heals, and seeing it will help you believe the rehab will help."

I was a little astounded. This was the heartless bitch that had me strapped to the bed, and then threatened to have orderlies sit on me the next morning. She was the same uncaring nurse who whipped the blankets from my nakedness, exposing me to the world, and then had the nerve to laugh. And now, she was sitting on my bed, consoling me, and explaining her actions, even though I hadn't asked. I felt that I needed to say something, anything, or I would break down and cry. I murmured, "What is your name?"

"Excuse me, you have to talk louder than that if I'm going to hear you."

"I said, what's your name?"

"Oh," she smiled, "I'm Rhonda. Rhonda... well just Rhonda for now. I know your name, you know. It's on your chart. You're Terry Flanders, Specialist Terry Flanders."

"Well, Rhonda, I don't know what to say. You were such a bit-, so hard on me the first day, and pretty hard this morning. When you changed my dressings, you laughed at me. And now, you're talking to me like a close friend. I'm a little confused here."

"You were going to say bitch, weren't you. That's OK, lots of guys think that about me when they first get here. I don't mind. When you hurt, or think your life has changed forever, you sometimes say things because you don't understand. See, if we pamper you guys, you'll never get well. The wounds will heal, but your mind won't, and that's the worst injury of them all. So, we treat you like you're well, even make you mad, so you'll realize your life isn't over. We also talk to the guys, if they want to talk, because that helps. I'll be glad to talk with you, but if you start feeling sorry for yourself, I'm going to be a bitch again, until you start to realize you're fortunate to be alive, and start acting like a normal man. Now get some sleep, and I'll be back to see you before I leave for the day."

So began our relationship, Rhonda's and mine. It wasn't a very good start, really, but as I grew to understand this tiny nurse, I also grew to respect her skills, lightening wit, and intelligence. If I was happy, she was happy. If I was feeling a little down, she would sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes and talk, and sometimes would hold my hand. If I dived back into the depths of self-pity, she was merciless, taunting, teasing, and laughing at me until I had to come back out of shame or anger. As soon as I returned to mostly normal, Rhonda would again become the friend who talked out my thoughts and worries, or who traded jibes with the skill of a fencing master teaching her student.

The first week passed slowly, but it passed. The Doc came every day and looked at my chart, but didn't say much except ask how I was and if I needed anything. Rhonda came everyday, at least three times, to check on me, or bring my meals or medications, or sometimes just to sit and talk. That weekend, Rhonda was off, so I didn't see her until Monday morning. I was feeling down again, because the Doc had said I had to stay in bed for another week. Staying in bed wasn't so bad. It was just boring as hell, and also really embarrassing when Rhonda had to bring me a bedpan. She never seemed to mind, and always smiled, but I just couldn't get used to that.

Mid-way through the second week, I started asking the Doc when I could get up. On Friday, Rhonda was all giggles when she brought my lunch, and I could tell she wanted to tell me something.

"Guess what?"

"I do'o, wha'," I slurred around a mouthful of meatloaf.

"On Monday, I'm going to get your lazy ass out of that bed, and take you to rehab. They're going to work you so hard you won't be able to feel sorry for yourself anymore, and I won't have to keep being a bitch. That'll be fun for a change." She giggled again, and then the soft voice returned. "Doctor Mills say's you're healing well, and wants to get you back on that leg as soon as possible. You start on Monday, only for a half hour, but it's a start. Just do the best you can, and you'll get stronger every day. Soon, you'll be walking with a cane, and then you can go home."

It was funny, but I really hadn't thought of going home. I read the letters that had finally found their way through the Army mail system, and thought about home a lot, but just never thought of going back, until she said that.

It seemed that Monday would never come, and when it finally did, I woke full of anticipation. Then, after thinking about it for a while, the anticipation turned to fear. My leg was shot to hell, and I hadn't walked in, what was it, almost three weeks now. I couldn't do this, I wasn't ready.

Rhonda brought me my breakfast and pills, and after she had taken care of the rest of the ward, came back to sit on the bed with me again.

"OK, Terry. I know you're scared. Just remember, you won't ever walk again unless you try. You're wound is healed enough to start, but you have to want it; you have to want it more than anything you've ever wanted before, because it's going to be hard. Your body is strong enough, but you have convince your mind, and that's the hard part."

A little later she rolled a wheelchair up to my bed. Between her supporting me and my effort, I managed to sit down in the chair. My wounded leg felt like so much dead weight, or would have if it hadn't started hurting. Once in the chair, it calmed down a little, and she wheeled me through the ward door and down a corridor. We came to a door marked "REHABILITATION ROOM 1", and she backed through, pulling me behind her.