Last Surgeon Read Online Free PDF Page B

sepia photograph was slightly faded, but not enough to wash away the visage of the intensely funny, bright, compassionate Marine, who was the only other one to have survived the nightmare of FOB Savannah.
    Vasquez, suffering from PTSD at least as debilitating as Nick’s, had nevertheless helped him to grieve for Sarah, and had often held him for as long as it took for Nick to stop shaking, even as Umberto’s own demons, and omnipresent cheap wine, were tearing away at his guts.
    REWARD
    For Validated Information Regarding the
    Disappearance of Staff Sgt. Umberto Vasquez
    Last seen 2/20/06; Fort Stanton Park
    Call Capt. Nick Garrity 202-966-9115
    “Damn, they make it hard,” Eddie moaned.
    “For a reason. Three out of ten claims get VA approval. Three out of ten! That’s millions, if not billions of benefit dollars that don’t have to get paid out. They’ll pay it if they have to, but they’ll sure make you work for it.”
    “Ain’t right,” Corporal Matthew McBean added in his dense Mississippi drawl.
    “But that’s the way it is. When I was diagnosed with PTSD I made the mistake of asking the VA regional office and their lead benefits blocker, Phillip MacCandliss, to expand my claim to include that diagnosis. MacCandliss knew the rules and interpreted my request to mean that I had a claim previously denied. The proper wording for what I wanted to do would have been to ‘amend my claim.’ That misstep cost me four months of tedious paperwork. And that was just my first of a number of mistakes. MacCandliss counts on us caving in at some point and just giving up. He and many of the rest of them equate depression and PTSD with weakness. He underestimated me-at least in that regard he did.”
    “Shit, I’d give up all my bennies for one decent night’s sleep,” McBean said.
    Nick nodded empathetically.
    “Have any of you called the EMDR Institute yet?” he asked. “If not, let’s make that your next homework assignment. Ask for Dr. Deems and tell her I recommended you call.”
    “You really think it’ll help?”
    Nick hesitated. Did he think it would help? The jury was still out on that one. Even so, the thought of ridding himself of his torment was enough motivation to continue experimenting with the relatively new psychotherapy tool. The idea of EMDR-eye movement desensitization reprocessing-was simple enough, and the technique had been used successfully for a number of conditions including performance anxiety, phobias, sexual dysfunction, and eating disorders.
    Working with a therapist in D.C. once each week, Nick was now on phase four of an eight-phase EMDR program. By combining repetitive eye movements with varying mental snapshots of both positive and traumatic images, the treatment purported to eliminate most, if not all, PTSD symptoms. Nick was hardly a poster child for the technique, though.
    Behind them, the floor-to-ceiling curtain opened a foot and Junie poked her head out.
    “Got a minute to check this kid, Nick?”
    If not for the class, both Junie and Nick would have been seeing patients from the beginning of the evening. In almost any situation, the nurse could match her skills and judgment against any M.D. or D.O., but it was Helping Hands policy-and that of the board of health-to have every patient checked by a doc, or else by a physician’s assistant or a nurse practitioner, and tonight there were neither of those on duty, although frequently there were.
    Nick passed out a sheet of instructions for the next class, and asked his three students to check it over while he was gone.
    “What do you have?” Nick asked as he approached the curtain.
    Junie did not pull her head back.
    “I have a kid that I think has mono.”
    “Did you draw bloods?”
    “A mono test, CBC and liver chems, plus an amylase and lipase.”
    “Throat?”
    “Classic, if there is such a thing. I cultured it and gave him a supply of penicillin, a rinse, and some Motrin.”
    “Enlarged spleen?”
    “I don’t