This is the story of Scott Brocious:
An Air Force nurse who served with the 332nd EMDG (AF) in Balad AB, Iraq
“She still has nail polish on”, stated the Lieutenant as the nurses around stopped momentarily, allowing the words to hang there suspended only by a collective unspoken frustration. I can only imagine the day her mother had planned for this 4 year old Iraqi girl. It was supposed to be a festive occasion; one of her relatives was getting married. Surely she could feel the sense of excitement around her, for in these small Iraqi villages everyone is interconnected. It’s unknown whether this marriage was traditional or more contemporary, but doubtless the women of the village took great pride in preparing the bride for her big day. Maybe she was able to play with cousins and family she had not seen in a while. I can imagine her being picked up and held with family reminiscing how big she had grown. She probably tried to wriggle out of her mother’s arms as she painted her toes and fingernails a light pink, so eager to join in the heyday as toddlers are want to do. She was, most assuredly, put in her best clothes a frilly very feminine dress; pink w/ a pink ribbon to match her nails. Then some white shoes that she rarely gets to wear as the dust in the village gets them dirty so quickly.
Sadly some time during the nuptials 2 women dressed in robes released their hatred on the crowd gathered. The transformation from a happy village event materialized instantly into horror. Multiple injuries in a MASCAL, one of those necessary military terms standing for mass casualties. The little girl, one of 10 injured, sustained significant injuries. No longer is she covered in pink, but her skin is peppered w/ black fragments from the blast. It is unknown what happened to her mother.
As nurses we can barely absorb the razing of humanity that exists in war. That is why we only remember our patients as numbers or by their injuries. It’s customary that we cannot recall a patient's name; they are merely referred to as “the guy with the amputation in bed 4”. When discussing patients without the injury modifier most nurses would be unsure who we were talking about. This subconscious forgetfulness is our paltry veil of protection against the brutality that humans inflict on each other.
That is why the nail polish was so significant; we don’t want to see this injured child in front of us, so we block out the mental imagery in our head. The nail polish tears the veil and forces us to confront her for who she is. In that moment we see our own children and can understand that caring mother who would take the time to paint a little child’s nails for such an occasion. It is only when an uncle arrives weeks later do we understand that her mother was killed shielding this girl from certain death, leaving that pink nail polish to remind us of how much she was loved.
Sadly some time during the nuptials 2 women dressed in robes released their hatred on the crowd gathered. The transformation from a happy village event materialized instantly into horror. Multiple injuries in a MASCAL, one of those necessary military terms standing for mass casualties. The little girl, one of 10 injured, sustained significant injuries. No longer is she covered in pink, but her skin is peppered w/ black fragments from the blast. It is unknown what happened to her mother.
As nurses we can barely absorb the razing of humanity that exists in war. That is why we only remember our patients as numbers or by their injuries. It’s customary that we cannot recall a patient's name; they are merely referred to as “the guy with the amputation in bed 4”. When discussing patients without the injury modifier most nurses would be unsure who we were talking about. This subconscious forgetfulness is our paltry veil of protection against the brutality that humans inflict on each other.
That is why the nail polish was so significant; we don’t want to see this injured child in front of us, so we block out the mental imagery in our head. The nail polish tears the veil and forces us to confront her for who she is. In that moment we see our own children and can understand that caring mother who would take the time to paint a little child’s nails for such an occasion. It is only when an uncle arrives weeks later do we understand that her mother was killed shielding this girl from certain death, leaving that pink nail polish to remind us of how much she was loved.
I remember like yesterday. You have such a beautiful way of putting words to the emotions and feelings that we all had that day. I Love the story.