So the other day I figured hey, I haven’t seen a doctor in about a week, may as well pop on in and see what else is broken, because it seems like every time I wander in they figure out something else that I probably should have had looked at about three years ago.
This time it was a delayed follow-up to my head examinations of a few months ago when they determined that when someone takes a chest plate for body armor to the face, they should probably get more than laughed at. Like, maybe someone should try resetting the bone. Doctors can be so particular about things like that.
But no matter. So I went to the doctor and said, “Funny, I still have headaches.” And he looked at my CT scan results of my head and said, “Well that’s because your face is deformed.” To which I responded, ‘Well gee, thank you, and now about my headaches.” He finally explained that it appears repeated blows to the face may result in things like a deviated septum and an awful lot of built up scar tissue in what used to once be a nasal cavity. Pack that in with a year of building sand castles in a third world country and you have yourself a prime candidate for some surgery.
My commander, upon receiving my email that mentioned my face was now apparently sub par chose to call me and upon me answering the phone to forego the “Hello” and skip right to, “You have got to be kidding me. What the hell is wrong with your face?” Which I forced him to clarify before providing him with a proper response. He will miss me when I am gone. I am sure of it.
So the final tally is both feet are shot from frostbite. One ankle doesn’t appear to have complete ligament structure. My tailbone is out of place. My left shoulder sometimes pops and makes my left arm go dead for hours. My face, apparently, is broken.
I am left with a fully functional right arm.
Potential careers, as discussed with my commander and with my soldier, both of whom were most entertained by all of this, seem to be a little limited. We came up with Miss America, though I have to limit all hand-waving to the right; Wal-Mart greeter, though I may need to sit on patio furniture while waving and greeting; Sandwich-board holder on the highway, as long as the sandwich board can be rigged only across the right shoulder; and of course, rail-hitching hobo.
So the options are out there for me, once the Army finally determines that I am no longer fit to swim among taxpayer dollars. Of course, first I might get to go back to Jihadistan, where I can happily make one-winged sand angels in the dirt and breathe through only one side of my head until the left brain dies off completely. There are strong indications that this process has already begun.
The sky is the limit, I suppose. What you can believe you can achieve, I am told. Several other euphamisms also apply… some more polite than others.