AML.

Someone was already at the table, but she looked nice. We didn't need an entire dining set to ourselves, just two chairs. Besides, milling around looking for an open table to eat at during a conference where two thousand other people are doing exactly the same thing gets boring incredibly quickly.
"Is there someone sitting in either of these two seats?"

Her answer was confusing at best. I gathered from inductive reasoning that at least one person was sitting in one of the other available spots. Thirty seconds in, she cleared up the murky waters of her surprisingly complex response by saying "why don't I move this and then you and your Grandpa can sit here with us. We'd love to have you."
Why thank you, we'd love to eat with you too.

Her husband appeared moments later carrying two iced teas with the liquid dancing in response to his shaking hands.
"I'm Lorraine, this is Pete."
I'm James, this my friend Harold.
"Where are you visiting from?"

Harold was excited to be around peers, and he didn't quite know how to contain himself as he launched into introductions for us both. At 75, being excited about something is an amazing idea, and I loved watching him expound on the most unnecessary and inconsequential facts about where he was from. Effortlessly he threw down all the details of exactly what disease it was he'd conquered, why he was attending the Lymphoma and Leukemia Society conference, and how he'd come to learn about what was next for him.
He'd successfully fought off a particularly vicious blood cancer "CLL" he'd say gruffly, "stage 4. But then one day my white blood cell count started to drop for no apparent reason."
Pete and Lorraine were captivated by his story.
"Well, we're in the middle of this thing" Lorraine said, reaching over to touch her husband's hand. "We've been to all the events they've offered, this is our first conference, and I have to say we're learning a lot. Pete's a strong fellow, we're just wanting to soak up as much as we can."

Everywhere I looked there were people from all walks of life with nothing but hope on their faces. Some had full heads of hair, others wore caps to mask their loss from aggressive therapeutic attempts to eradicate their disease, and the teenagers with a war waging inside their bodies against themselves most often chose beanies.

Lunch was a dry sandwich -- no condiments. You never think about how much they matter until you have a dry club sandwich without any of them. Then you realize how important they are to complete your sandwich.

The gentleman who spoke last just before break had lived through a particularly aggressive breed of lymphatic cancer, "macroglobulinemia" and had been on over a thousand different kinds of medication over the course of his disease.

I sat and listened as Harold, Pete and Lorraine exchanged their stories, compared experiences, and spoke medical dialogue so quickly and efficiently it was hard to believe none of them had darkened the door of a medical class. But they hadn't -- they were living, breathing classrooms themselves.
They were a case study, a statistic, and most avidly against the odds.

"Pete and I visited Hawaii for our 25th wedding anniversary. We loved it so much! It was the most special present I think he's ever given me." Pete smiled and his eyes watched his wife as she dove into the deep blue sea of memories to pick out the best ones and show me.
"We went to all four major islands together, but Kauai was our favorite. I wanted to sleep in -- all I wanted to do was sleep -- but Pete got me up dark and early one morning to watch the sunrise on top of that mountain, Haleakala, while we were in Maui."
He was from Boston, they'd been married for 55 years and "plan on making it another 55 together!"

Pete had "acute myeloid leukemia" but refused to say the words. "AML" he interrupted as his wife attempted say the full name for us. "They know what that is." Lorraine smiled and nodded, "well, Harold had CLL and it's in remission, and James is a nursing student. I'm sure he knows more about it than we do!"
I don't Lorraine. I know almost nothing. But after my light lunch of a sandwich with chips and a side of cold pasta salad, I know more about it than the any of my classes could ever teach me.

makin' stuff up. 'cause.

What is it I've been trying so hard to do these last (almost) eight months since I've been married?
Create.
Create what?
Pretty much everything.
But it wasn't until tonight that I really understood what I'd been working so hard at realizing.

My wife and I have come together on many, many issues trying to co-discover what we want "our home" to be.
"I want our bathroom to always be clean."
"I want to have just enough mess people feel comfortable."
"There should always be food -- we should always offer people food."
"And booze. Lots of it."
"JAMES. No. We aren't going to be that couple."
"But Jessa, we could reach out to people through liquor, you know, like a reverse-alcoholic thing."
"No. Absolutely not."
"Okay. Then cookies. We always have cookies."
"No to that too."
"Why no to that too?"
"Because I don't want to make cookies that often."
"Well then what can we do? If you say no to cookies, really you're saying no to everything."
"The food idea. I like that. That one was nice."
"Thanks Jessa!"

As we've been slowly working through the countless minuscule, tiny issues that crop up as we determine what type of home we want to be, we are beginnings the foundation of what will be (for lack of a more descriptive term) us.
Wherever we live in whatever home around whoever's close for however long, we'll always be "us". James and Jessa.
That's the most exciting part.

Tonight I found a much better term than just "us" to describe what Jessa and I are creating.
We're creating our own culture.

More than what people see when they first come in our door, what do they feel?
What is a consistent response that they receive from both her and I at any point in time when we're asked certain questions?
Do we sometimes just have popcorn to offer, but our guests know they'll be fed?
Are we embarrassed about a mess or do we simply excuse it as less important to the relationships we're building?
What music plays?
Are we sit-and-talk-all-night type people, or do we proffer a game to keep things moving?
Where does our faith come in?

I would encourage you to find immense joy in and take on the challenge of creating your own culture for who you are.
Maybe you're not an "us" yet -- that's totally fine, hang in there -- so then you're a "you." Who are "you"?
It's pretty awesome to discover what you find important and realize that since it's your home or your life you can totally do things like put up a sign above the toilet that says "Get Naked."

Culture is always changing.
It's mold, it's growing, spreading, adapting to it's surrounding environment and reproducing rapidly.
It's also a part of society that mimics mold in lots of ways.
Instead of being a part of those vile-tasting cold-Christian comments that involve the words "that's what' s wrong with our culture today" or "a big problem with our culture is..." how about you make your own culture?
Create it from scratch.
And if it tastes anything like cookies, I'm in.
Because cookies are delicious and there should always be cookies.

yes.

I talk more both from and in the shower now that I'm married than when I was single. Being in the shower no longer says "indisposed" and now means "I'm somewhere that's normal to talk to from the other side of the house."
Wife - "Why are you in the shower?"
Me - "Because!"
"Because why?"
"Because I have that thing!"
"What thing?"
"I can't hear you."
"Yes you can."
"Oh."
"What thing?!"
"The thing at David Baker's tonight."
"Man Night™'s tonight?"
"Yep."
"Is Man Night™ every ni--never mind. Not asking that question."

Water droplets fly everywhere. I open the sliding glass door and step out onto the frequently flattened bath rug and select a towel from a basket that has many options carefully folded and placed together. My life has neatened.
Pull up the jeans... and they barely fit. I think the reason I didn't eat a regular, three-square meals a day in college was because I knew if I did, my clothes might fit and I'd have to buy newer, bigger sets of them.
Which was a bad idea, because I was losing more money at the time than a lot of people make in a year.
"The good side of this is I'm kind of working out" I kind of think to myself as I strain to pull the "nice" pair of jeans up as far as they need to go so I'm legal to be in public again today.
"Do you want to work out today?"
Somehow she heard my thoughts. "How did you know I was thinking about working out?"
My lovely wife blinks, stares for a second, and then says plainly "you said it out loud, Sweetie." She's good. The word "Sweetie" does make things sound much better. I like it.
"So do you want to work out?" Still somewhat newly-married, I'm not a hundred percent in-tune with that survival/safety net of answers a husband must learn.
"Not really." Buzz. Wrong answer. The answer is *ding ALWAYS YES.
No narrative is necessary here because it would be entirely good questions and bad answers, both of which you already know. Let's just say I didn't pass the exam.

One of my Uncles has a great answer that he always tells me when the question of "do you want to work out" is brought up. He says "tell her you work out every day and if she wants to work out with you someday she should just go to work with you and find out how difficult it is."
He is divorced and has a nice big belly.
The answer is ALWAYS YES.

"James" you think. "Sometimes the answer is no though."
Nope.
"But what if she asks..." and then you make up a really lame, dumb scenario where the answer is technically "no." Okay, maybe you're like tiny bit right? But that still makes you mostly wrong. Because even though the answer was "no" you were still saying "yes" to the wife. The goal. In life. Is to mostly say "yes" to the wife. Even when you say "no."
"Wow James, you're figuring this marriage thing out early in life!" you think to yourself.
Nope. I'm creating a persona in the cyber-world of myself understanding marriage hoping that it will crawl out of the television and hop into my body someday. Just like that movie we watched at Man Night™.

lame coal.

Someone gave us four bags of coal for Christmas. Which is dumb, because I've been good all year. I even filed taxes -- which for a college student is admirably laudable.
The bags of "coal" turned out to be chocolate. But not the good chocolate either. The cheaper, knock-off brand of Nestle's chocolate that has rice krispies in them and tastes delicious.
That's right.
Fake crunch bars. When you eat them they get all hot in your mouth and super sugary -- far more so than normal chocolate -- and you don't feel like eating tons and tons of it.
These little bags of undeserved coal-turned-lame-wannabe-delicious-snacks truly served no purpose in our lives. My wife and I went on to have a cheery, joy-filled Christmas with family and a snack-sized portion of traveling to boot. I got an iPad, she a full-sized keyboard, but mostly we laughed, played games with random groups of people and sipped at copious amounts of bottomless coffee.
December 29th we trundled in the front door laden with bags, groceries to restock our nearly-bare fridge, and we were content.
It has been an amazing, albeit challenging season of newly-married life.

And then my wife spotted the four little bags of darkness.
"YOU'RE A BOY JAMES!" She yelled. This is both true and a fact.
With that, she began hurling coal after fake, decidedly un-tasty coal at me.
Four bags.
She emptied both barrels at once and lit her husband up, who defended himself at the last second possible with a seat-cushion. Relentlessly she fired on him, laughing, yelling, and paying no heed to the fact that I was scooping up handfuls of the grounded munitions and attempting a fruitless recourse on her aggressive actions.

People of the world who deliver cheap, lame coal to our door intending us to act docile and place it carefully in our stockings, be warned.
We may just throw it right back at you and start a war.
That's how we roll around here.

towel thing.

It's a strange bird, being married.
I haven't had to establish the importance of keeping my towel mine very own in a long, long time. Yes, when I was fourteen muchly yelling would take place over the ownership of such colored things as towels, but then again, I was fourteen. There was muchly yelling over everything.
"I DIDN'T USE YOUR TOWEL JAMES! STOP YELLING AT ME ABOUT IT!"
"Yes you did. I know because it's wetter than when I was done using it this morning. I checked just now."
"Why are you checking your towel? YOU'RE SO WEIRD!"
"I'm checking it because I have to. YOU WON'T STOP USING IT. STOP USING IT RIGHT NOW!"
"I'm not using it right now, OBVIOUSLY."
"You know what I mean."
"Go away, I'm doing school."

Now, any husband in his right mind knows this is no way to interact with his lovely wifey. Thankfully, I'm not left-minded, so I knew this conversational type was completely out of bounds. It now sounds more like this:
"Lovey, did you use my towel?"
"Yep."
"Why? There are so many other towels in the basket. How come you couldn't just use one of those and hang it right up beside mine instead of using mine."
"I don't like your tone of voice, please take the edge out of it. How did you know I used it anyway? DID YOU CHECK JUST NOW?!"
"No, of course -- yes. Yes I did."
"WHY WOULD YOU GO INTO THE BATHROOM TO CHECK YOUR TOWEL?! Should we name it? We should probably name your towel, that would be a good, healthy thing to do. Let's name it. Why did you check to see if I'd used your towel?"
"It's just a thing I've had since I don't know... the second I was born. I didn't want anyone else to use my towel, ever. No other babies have been born on the towel my Mom first held me in. I made sure of that. Hospital incinerator. It wasn't tough to do when your legs have relatively no muscle structure and you're only 21" tall, but it was worth it. Please don't use my towel."

That's what surprised me maybe the most about marriage. I never knew I had so many "things". And one way to truly show someone you love them is to take what matters a lot to you and dropkick it in the tushy. I'm slowly, ever so slowly learning this difficult, complex and delicate concept.
"No, you can't use my toothbrush."
"Please close the door when you pee. I'm making dinner and the pee sound makes it taste worse."
"No, let's just sit and talk right now, we don't ALWAYS have to be cleaning EVERYTHING FOREVER."
"In this house, we're Patriots fans. That's all. Please trust me and love me on this one and never question that and be a huge fan voluntarily. I said please."
"Whenever you turn the music down you do it way too much and then it sounds like Alicia Keys is whispering. I don't like that."
"You make way too much food every time you cook. There's only two of us, and you cook for like seven."
And so on and so forth.

Love isn't necessarily purchasing someone a candle you hate the smell of but know they'll love. That can be love, but true love -- I'm just now realizing more and more each day -- is setting aside yourself for the other person.
The word sacrifice has gained a sort of greatness I think the Christian culture has projected on to it. Jesus was the greatest man that ever lived; both man and God, he was the epitome of sacrifice. But sacrifice does not always mean "do big things." Jesus lived a life full of serving and sacrifice, doing many seemingly small things that proved to be great in God's kingdom.
Often, sacrifice is realizing someone likes to pee while watching an awesome part in a movie, and hence, doesn't close the door all the way. Or even a little. Greatness can be allowing someone to vent safely, not taking everything to heart and allowing them to verbally process their day.
And love?
I'm still at an absolute loss as to what true love looks like in a marriage most of the time. But isn't that where grace and patience come in, unannounced and stand firmly in the way of selfishness? That's the idea anyway. Often discontentment and conflict muscle their way around goodness, loudly state their demands and wait to be served. But there's a reason love is the greatest.
It completely OWNS.
Marriage is a lot of work, most anyone will tell you that. But hopefully they'll also tell you that it's pretty awesome, a hell of a lot of fun, and incredibly affirming. Especially when you come home to the other person bouncing up and down saying "I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE HOME! I MISSED YOU!"
Makes the towel thing seem pretty unimportant.

back off.

I came in outside from the blowing snow, stomping in a decidedly un-professional manner. The small clumps of frozen water stuck to the bottom of my boots had almost nothing to do with my actions -- I was frustrated. It'd been that type of week. My wife had traveled home after thanksgiving and I'd stayed behind to work Thursday through Sunday for the military, and I was exhausted. And angry.
An accumulation of the last few weeks' small disagreements, some pretty rough extended family relationship struggles and a few sleepless nights from not feeling well had all piled on during my cold walk to the office.
The cheery greeting by "Happy" as we all called her was harshly ignored and I moved quickly down the hallway.
Now was not the time.
I like to think I can play poker, that I can paste on an expressionless face, but in all reality... not so much. Today like most other days, my countenance yelled status updates about how I was feeling at everyone who looked up and saw me. As I slammed my bag down and took out my ID to put in the computer and wait for it to turn on, one of the officers I work with stepped quietly in to my cubicle and stood, waiting.
I watched as of course, the friggin computer wouldn't turn on. Three times I hit the power button and waited patiently with no response. An odd number of times. There was absolutely no reason it shouldn't have turned on, even if it was just suspended -- whatever. I sat down, turned around and noticed her for the first time.
"Good morning."
"Everything alright?" The mother of four, she was a sea of calm and concern.
"The damn computer won't turn on. We're the Department of Defense and here I am sitting at a PC that uses XP and takes eight minutes to boot up."
She ignored my outburst and said simply "I wasn't asking about the computer. Are you alright? Do you want to talk about it?"
It was startlingly direct, caring and shone a bright light on my insanely unprofessional and inappropriate attitude for work.
I felt my fingers, nose, cheeks and heart begin to defrost a little.
"I guess. It's just been one of those weeks you know. I've been apart from my wife over a month in days already and we've only been married six months. It seems like that won't ever change and I always, always feel like my duty weekend comes at the worst time. Always."
The computer screen blinked blue, then presented me with an option to log on. I chose to.
Captain Miazga waited until I had finished and swung my chair back around to face her again.
"I've been married for a long time, and I've been in the military for 13 years now. That won't ever change. You'll get through it, just hang in there."
The last of the frozen snow on the side of my boot fell off, and I heard people around the office talking on their phones and with each other. Someone stepped in, excused themselves, and pulled a stack of sheets from the printer I hadn't even heard working next to me.
"Thank you Captain, I appreciate you making sure I was fine."
"No problem, many people have done the same for me."
She stood and left me to go back to setting up the nurse's schedule for the weekend, and I opened up my email.
Outside, the wind was howling and swirling as much as before. A cold front had descended from Canada earlier that morning and brought with it the cool air from the adjacent Rockies. But inside what little snow there was left had just finished melting into the carpet.

Proverbs 15:1 "A soft answer turns away wrath"
James 3:17 "The wisdom from above is first pure, peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere."

embrace the uncomfortable.

It's unavoidable.

Any time I travel in uniform, most of the time when I go out to eat in uniform, and definitely if I'm shopping in uniform for some reason, it's as if I send a flare up to whatever ceiling I'm under that says "come talk to me, veterans." Vets are not known for their timing or social graces. Their most common stereotype is "incessant story tellers" or "emotionally unstable." This is true. Some of the most relentless people I've ever met were the retired military folk that populate airports, restaurants and are sparsely scattered throughout wherever I'm living at the time. That and realtors -- maybe it's the commission, or maybe the entrance battery exam to sell homes is a test of how much love you can force on every person you know. 

Like any small child, a human that demands your undivided attention can be exhausting. I get that. But what is the redeeming grace that allows you to more than just "tolerate" a child hungry for your eye contact and heedfulness? Love. Love, and you realize that they need you.

That is what your veteran needs. 

For you to love them and realize that they need you. They need your appreciation, your attention, your listening heart and your eye contact, like any small child. I do not imply that they're small children, however. In fact if anything, guaranteed those veterans that would approach you, a total stranger, and want to create from scratch an informal relationship, has had a sizable portion of his childhood taken away from him.

From 17-22 much of our nation spends it's time creating positive memories. 

Whether or not you go to college or stay home and drive too fast, drink too much, date the wrong people, spend too much or take a dangerously unintelligent vacation for five days at the last minute to a ludicrously far away place -- at those ages we were making positive memories. Albeit, not necessarily intelligent ones. 

Many, many veterans at that age were serving overseas in a war taking place on foreign soil. There are few alones like being apart from your family on a holiday, and many vets know that first-hand all too well. 

Those that fought in WWII or Korea have mostly passed on, those that haven't are more than likely not out and about very much. Many if not most though, saw things that cannot be shown on even HBO or Showtime, and never will be, they're that horrific. Those were violent, personal wars.

Those vets that were in Vietnam were very likely to have been invited to attend against their will. Coming home from being overseas for a year or more, they returned home to protests, being spat on and outright assaulted. So they traveled in civillian clothes. 

How much would you trade the last few years of your childhood for? Most vets traded theirs for less-than good pay. The moment they stepped off the plane in whatever foreign nation we were fighting in, they lost the remaining years of joy and traded it in for experiencing things you probably never will. 

Not all vets, but many, many of them. And chances are, if you're socially uncomfortable with the veteran talking to you, he was one of those.

Instead of dismissing a dirty old man wearing far too many accessories and articles of clothing that broadcast he served in the military at one time or another, what if you thank them?

If you're a daring, adventurous, rebellious soul with blatant disregard for social safety, ask the vet a question that says sincerely "I care about you" or "I don't know you, but you seem interesting and I'd at least like to meet you." 

Look at a badge and ask where or how he got it. 

"What was the 34th Artillery?"

Ask him how long it's been since he was in. He'll laugh, but it will get the conversation rolling.

I promise you, whatever you show up to a little bit late for today or in the future, if you smile and quietly explain yourself by saying "I'm sorry, I got caught up talking to a Mr. (insert name), who wanted to tell me about his 4 years serving in (insert place). Did you know that he (insert fact about the person)?" you'll be just fine. 

Sincerely caring about someone you've never met before can be unsettling, but to truly listen and be interested someone who gave some of the most exciting years of their life away in exchange for serving our nation is one of the best way to truly love them.

Ephesians 4:2 "with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bear with one another in love."
1 John 3:18 "Little children, let us not love in word or talk, but in action and in truth."

nothing crazy or out of the ordinary.

Called my brother.

"Ricky."

"What."

"The Patriots game today is on Fox. I don't get Fox with my stupid bunny ears. Can I watch tv at your house?"

"Yeah. I just need a 50 foot cable. Let me pick one up, I'm at Walmart."

I love that guy.






Two days ago he came over with his girlfriend, Haley, to watch the next episode of Terra Nova with my wife and I. After popcorn chicken had all been devoured and the episode concluded, he and I adjourned to my room for some standard catch-up conversation.

The girls sat in the living room talking about whatever it is womenfolk find important, and we largely paid them no mind.




"Check this out. (the trailer plays) Doesn't that look sick?"

"Yeah. It'll probably be really good."

"Oh, I've got to show you what I got on the ol' iPad."

"What is it?"

"Catan."

"Sweeeeeet! How is it?"

"Playable. The UI (user interface, or how the game "looks" over all) is a little bit convoluted, but I think on a long road trip it will be fun."

"Or a plane flight. That's what the iPad is for. Yeah, I really like this."

"I know."

"Know what I miss?"

He looked at me, patiently expressionless as only my brother can be. "What."

"Throwing a football. Last week after the Pats lost I threw one to myself for like half an hour outside."

"Straight up? Nice."

"Yeah."

"Well come over sometime. Give me a call and if I'm not busy, we'll throw a football around outside or on the quad."

"Really?"

"Sure. James. I love my new espresso machine. Robert picked it up for like ten bucks, and we use it all the time. It's like five cups of coffee in one cup, and delicious."

"We just do coffee every morning and sometimes at night."

"Lame. That is so 2011."

"You idiot, that's what year we're in."

"Robert and I live in the future."

"How fun is that for you two, living in the future?"

"Fun James. Very, very fun."

Our conversations fly by quicker than when we talk with almost anyone else, but that's alright, we can do that.




We're brothers.

first respiratory movements

I read a simple descriptive paragraph today in my book "Atlas of the Anatomy" that painted a beautiful picture. The italicized words are from the text, the un-italicized words are the imagery married to to science.
"Simple Cuboidal Epithelial Tissue" covers all the tubular cavities that divide the lungs of a fetus.
An unborn infant.

The cells are tightly aligned with each other and have a cube-like shape. At birth, with the first respiratory movements, the cavities begin to dilate
Baby's first breath. The empty spaces in the tiny him or her begin to shrink, they are no longer needed. Life pours in, relentless, filling every area of the small, quivering body.
As arms lurch and legs stab at the air below tightly squinted shut eyes, the lungs continue to change.

the connective tissue that separates the epithelial layers shrinks, and the cuboidal epithelium transforms into a simple pavement epithelial tissue.
It is finished. There is no going back. The lungs have changed and are no longer content to live in murky, weightless darkness. They will forever need. Need air, a heart, blood flow.

Life is paved in the lungs, literally knit together in the womb and irreversibly born into the world.




John 3: 4-5: "How can a man be born when he is old?" Nicodemus asked. "Surely he cannot enter a second time into his mother's womb to be born!"

Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit.

kinetic learning

Out of the just over 900 students that lived in "Challenger Hall", or the "medical squadron" as it was more commonly referred to as, I was probably the only one who didn't want to go to Las Vegas.
21, single, and very happy with the decidedly upward turn my life had taken -- the last thing I wanted was to be stationed for six weeks in what I saw at the time as the "Sodom & Gomorrah of the U.S."
When the day came for our nursing instructor to read us the results of our "Phase II" lottery, Major Allen had no issue piping up to his students "now calm down. As usual no talking, as usual no one gets to trade, and as usual I'll read yours last Airman Eldridge." Beyond unfair, I voiced my opinion of said injustice. And as usual Major Allen stated my opinions were what got me where I was in the first place. Last.
The names flew by. The class either lauded or protested where they'd end up next to continue their career training, but until your name was heard and you knew what group you were with, it didn't matter.
More names. Good, Vegas came and went and my name wasn't attached to the location.
"And for Keesler Air Force Base we have Barnett, Rodriques, Singletary and Eldridge -- is at Vegas with Shook, Anthony, Dantes and Chavez-Vallero."
A week later we took a taxi from the base to the airport, flew, and took a taxi from the airport to our next base. Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, Nevada. Not interested in going out every weekend for six weeks in a row drinking and gambling with my "of age" peer group, I worked out a lot, ate dinner at the base food court to take a break from the meals at the dining facility, and played a lot of pool.
Within a few days of playing pool in one of the local dormitory common areas I had made several friends.  Kinley was a quiet, very small individual who wanted very much to be appreciated and feel like he was accepted. Hardly over 5 feet tall, he was surprisingly strong and spent much of his time staring up at you while you talked to him. Military folk are quite adept at new relationships however shallow, so soon we were talking. His parents were divorced, all his friends back home somewhere in the nameless south were nothings, and he was now a something. An aircraft mechanic, he had PCS'd (permanent change of station) to Nellis six months prior.

It was a Thursday night and the common area downstairs was full. Someone had the bright idea to put the couches on top of the tables to make arena-style seating, and there was big fight on tv.
The alcohol flowed freely, as did the military-typical yelling, arguing and toasting. Young military males do not hang out in groups at parties, they group around the girls that are always outnumbered. Tonight was no exception, there were three girls and six to eight guys gathered around each competing for their attention.
"C'mon, just have one drink, just stick around for a little bit." Kinley was drunk.
"No, I'm going to work out and wanted to come by and see who was yelling."
"Most of these guys are legal, don't sweat it man! Just do one shot with me." The alcohol culture in the military is so prevalent and potent it leaves in it's wake a plethora of underage drinkers.
"You know I don't care. I don't know any of these people and I don't even know who's fighting tonight."
"What the hell man? How do you not know Fedor?"
I smiled, shrugged, put in my headphones and walked out.

The next morning I caught the 6am bus to the hospital, walked through the quiet whoosh of the E.R. double-paned sliding glass doors, and put my backpack down in the break room.
"Eldridge, don't change into scrubs. You're wearing the radio today, here." Driving the ambulance. Sweet.
"I don't know the base streets."
"I'll be with you up front and you'll know your way back here."

The first call came at around 9am. My building.
Someone had called 911 because there was a person passed out in a recliner.
When we picked Kinley up he was pale and starting to turn a pastel-tinted hue of blue. He had drunk 3/4 of a bottle of vodka, passed out, and then was left alone. During the night he vomited, and because no one was there to turn him on his side, he aspirated into his lungs and was had choked. At some point he turned over on his own and coughed some of it out, but his pulse was weak and he was completely unresponsive.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the Emergency Department, lying in a bed. He'd been intubated and his stats were rising.

Halfway through my shift I was walking by his room with a stack of sheets to put on one of the beds next to his when he started moving, attempting to sit up. Doubtless his mind was still foggy; his eyes were still closed as his hands gripped the side of the bed.
"Kenny, I need you to lie back down." Patients -- anyone, really -- are most responsive to their first name. When he realized he was intubated it startled him and only half-conscious, he grasped at it, gurgling.
"No, don't -- I NEED A NURSE NOW!"
I barely made it across the room and leapt on top of him, trying in vain to pin his incredibly strong arms to the bed. It was too late. Within seconds he reacted violently to the severe discomfort of the tube in his throat that had saved his life and in one massive movement he bent forward, tearing it completely out. A moment later medical personnel flooded into his room. One doctor put both palms on either side of his head pinning him to the bed, a nurse put both forearms on his chest and a second physician said "Ativan and restraints."

Later that day I returned from another ambulance run to pick up an elderly man with chest pains to find Kinley had been moved upstairs to the ICU.
I never found out what finally happened to Kenny Kinley.
Not everything delivers the satisfaction of a conclusive ending.